


Artificial Nocturnes

by jennsaisquoi



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Leliana-centric, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-19 03:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11304579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennsaisquoi/pseuds/jennsaisquoi
Summary: Love in the time of the apocalypse.





	1. Prologue

Kirkwall, 9:40 Dragon

 

*****************************************

A hooded figure moves through the dark streets of Lowtown, picking her way through the garbage, empty bottles, and vomit covering the cracked stones. Beggars sleep beneath the awnings of dilapidated market stalls, oblivious to the cacophony of drunken revelry coming from the Hanged Man. Slipping past the crowd loitering outside the tavern, she descends the stairs into the warehouse district. 

During the day the walkways are crowded with merchants moving goods to and from the docks below, but Kirkwall’s most lucrative and dangerous business is conducted under cover of night. Smugglers hole up in the empty buildings and thugs lurk in the shadows, biding their time before their next hit for hire. 

A small alleyway winds away from the perilous pathway to the docks, dead ending at a nondescript metal door. The figure looks over her shoulder to make sure she’s not being followed then pulls a key from beneath her leather armor. She turns the lock and eases the door open, stepping inside. 

The safehouse is pitch dark but she knows it well enough to make her way to the table, lighting the candle at its center. Her elven hearing picks up an unfamiliar sound nearby. She reaches for her dagger as a tall figure materializes from the shadows, slipping into one of the chairs.

“You can put that away. I’m here to talk, Black Hart. Or do you go by another name now that you’ve left Salle?”

Female. Orlesian accent. Not a Crow, but her leathers might be Antivan-made. Could be House of Repose, even with the Chantry insignia stitched over the breast of her armor.

“No Chantry spy could’ve found their way in here.”

With a nod the woman removes her hood. “Certainly not. That’s why I had to come myself. My name is Leliana, though you may know me as Sister Nightingale.”

There isn’t a spy in Southern Thedas that doesn’t know of the Left Hand of the Divine, though most talk about her only in hushed tones. Her skills as spy and assassin are unquestionable, but even in the dim candlelight it’s clear that the rumors of Leliana’s beauty have not been exaggerated either.  

The elf swallows and sheathes her daggers. “It’s an honor, Lady. How’d you find me?”

Leliana’s laugh is light for one who carries such a dark reputation. “I found you years ago. There was just no need for us to meet before.”

The elf shifts on her feet. As far as she knows, Leliana doesn’t make house calls. “Why’re you here now?”

Leliana gestures for her to sit and the elf takes the chair across from her at the table. “Divine Justinia’s vision for the Chantry is progressive, too progressive to some. She wants to ensure rights for the mages, but recent attempts have been...unsuccessful.  What happened here and at the White Spire cannot be repeated.”

The elf crosses her arms. All of Thedas heard about what happened here. There were also whispers that the Divine had been involved in some way with the events that led to the uprising at White Spire, and that her Left Hand may have even been sent to intervene directly. “They say you personally rescued some of the mages at the White Spire.”

Leliana looks away. “Innocents shouldn’t suffer for the mistakes of those more powerful.” 

When she speaks again, any trace of regret is gone from Leliana’s voice. “The Divine believes she can find a path to peace between the mages and the Templars. All the pieces have been put onto the board and now they must be moved into position. A spy of your talent can be an asset or an adversary. I would prefer if you were the former.”

The elf sighs. She cares little about the Chantry, but there’s no question that many innocent people will be killed if the mages and Templars won’t see reason. The fact that the request comes personally from Leliana makes it more appealing. 

Highly skilled spies are few and far between, taking great risks to do the bidding of the most influential kingdoms throughout Thedas. The Chantry is the most powerful player of all, with Leliana’s work making no small contribution. Now they might be the only thing that can prevent all out war across Thedas. “I’ll accept your offer, but on one condition.”

Leliana’s doesn’t blink. “Name it.”

“You call me Charter, not Black Hart or whatever else.”

Leliana nods and rises from the table. “I will send word when I arrive in Orlais. Then we will be ready to begin.”

 

*****************************************

Cassandra stands on the crowded dock surveying the work of the crew as they prepare the ship for the journey back across the Waking Sea. Men load barrels of provisions aboard while others hang from the rigging, tending to the sails. She taps her boot on the grime-covered planks, willing the sailors to move faster so she can get away from this poor excuse for a city. 

Full of corruption and thieves, Kirkwall is the last place Cassandra would come willingly, but an order from the Divine cannot be ignored. After a week and a half traipsing around the city and countless hours interrogating an exceptionally annoying dwarf, Cassandra is no closer to finding a lead on the Champion than she was when she arrived. The only person of any competence in the entire place is the guard captain. It’s a pity she ended up in Kirkwall. She would have made an excellent Seeker. 

The ship’s captain finally signals that passengers can come aboard and Cassandra wastes no time. A contingent of Seekers, all of them of junior rank, nod respectfully and step aside as she makes her way up the gangway and forward towards the bow. Alone on the deck she rests her forearms on the railing, facing away from the city. She doesn’t plan to look back until they reach Val Royeaux. 

The ship begins to navigate out of the harbor, past Kirkwall's famous chains and into open water. Cassandra closes her eyes and inhales the salty air, thankful to finally smell something besides Lowtown’s rotten garbage or the clouds of over- applied perfume constantly wafting through High Town. 

She feels a presence beside her and without opening her eyes knows it must be Leliana. No other would approach her unannounced. Cassandra sighs and looks over at her. “I hope whatever you found was worth the trip. If not this entire endeavor was a waste of time.”

Leliana glances back toward the city. “Elthina was a brave woman. A record of what happened here is important.”

Leliana has always seemed an empathetic optimist, a strange thing for someone in her line of work. Cassandra sighs. “I do not question Elthina’s faith. But if we can do no better than to make a record, I fear that such tragedies may happen in every city from here to the Anderfels.”

“I know. It is a pity about the Champion.”  

That is an understatement. Cassandra grips the wooden railing. “Yes. Now we return to the Divine with neither her nor the Hero of Ferelden. What is an Inquisition with no Inquisitor?” 

Leliana shrugs. “What is a head with no body to hold it up?”

Cassandra would throw herself into the sea and swim back to Orlais if it meant Leliana would stop speaking in riddles. “Speak plainly Leliana, I have run out of patience.”  

Leliana leans closer, though no one else on the ship is within earshot. “You know as well as I do that many of the grand clerics conspire against Justinia now, even if it brings their people into war.  An Inquisition needs resources: information, alliances, men at arms. If we cannot rely on the Chantry for such things, we must seek them elsewhere ourselves.” 

Cassandra sighs deeply. The only thing worse than when Leliana speaks in riddles is when she speaks plainly things Cassandra knows are right but doesn’t wish to hear. When this happens, Leliana usually takes the opportunity to make a joke at Cassandra’s expense, but now there is only a weary determination in her eyes. “Justinia has trusted us with this task, Cassandra. We cannot fail her.”

 

Cassandra looks out over the water. 

 

“Maker help us.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This began as an exploration of Leliana's friendship with Charter over the course of Inquisition/Trespasser and grew into something larger. But there can never be enough femslash in this fandom, so here we are.
> 
> Comments appreciated.


	2. Eruditions I

Orlais, 9:41 Dragon

 

********************************

The streets around Halamshiral’s chantry bustle with people on their way to the market across the square, servants running errands, and city guards strolling lazily on patrol. Charter watches from high above, perched on the windowsill of a third floor room in a warehouse with a clear view of the chantry yard. A pair of well-dressed men walk out of the chantry. One of them flexes his fists, clearly trying to control his anger. The other leads him out to the street, nodding politely to the chanter at the chantry board as they pass. 

Charter hops down from the ledge and walks over to the lone piece of furniture in the room. On the oak table are an assortment of partially used candles, an inkwell, quills, and a small notebook. She doesn’t bother to sit as she opens the notebook to the next empty page. Dipping the quill in the inkwell, she marks the date in the top right corner before scribbling a note on the first line. “VK and JL back again. Third meeting worse than first two--not likely to return.”

Charter places the quill back in the well and walks over to the pack sitting on her bedroll. After a moment of rummaging she digs out an apple, dusting it off before taking a bite on her way back to her observation post at the window. She savors the tartness of the fruit as it stings her tongue; in the alienage the only apples she ever tasted were the half rotten, sickly sweet ones she and the other elven children stole off the carts bound for the midden. Despite the fact that the produce was spoiled, the merchants would still give a good beating if one of them was caught. In the years since she left home she’s had apples of every variety at the markets across Thedas. The looks of disgust on the merchants faces haven’t changed since then, but at least the selection is better. 

She’s been travelling through the Dales for a few months now collecting information on Grand Cleric Victoire. Successfully surveilling on someone of the Grand Cleric’s status, someone known to be proficient at the Grand Game, requires patience and painstaking attention to detail. With Victoire currently in residence at the chantry in Halamshiral, Charter spends her days carefully observing the minor nobles who visit the grand cleric hoping for favors and taking meticulous notes on the habits of the sisters cloistered there. 

The elderly Sister Henriette spends most of her days reciting the chant with the poor and wretched who flock to the chantry’s outer grounds for protection and daily guidance. Herbs and vegetables are grown in the southern corner of the chantry yard by Sister Marie. Young Genevieve is often found under the trees lining the path to the well, her head buried in books from the Chantry library. 

Laure and Elise meet twice a week at midnight in the chantry’s private garden. Charter once pursued them in the hopes of overhearing something of use for her mission but instead found them beneath the statue of Andraste, Elise divested of her robes and Laure’s head bowed in something decidedly not prayer. Leliana’s response to this piece of reconnaissance was simply, “I always found life amongst the cloistered to be both rigorous and stimulating. May Andraste continue to watch over them both. ”   

Despite being a jesting response of no significance, Leliana had still encrypted it as though it were a highly confidential piece of information.  When Charter’s first assignment arrived via raven a few days after their meeting in Kirkwall, the cypher Leliana used was so complex it took Charter, an aficionado of encryption herself, nearly an hour to break it.

In the year since, she and Leliana have communicated regularly as Charter travelled to observe shifting alliances in the various courts in Nevarra and Orlais. The frequency and sensitive nature of their correspondence requires new ciphers almost weekly. At first it was Leliana who changed them, forcing Charter to adapt. Now it’s become somewhat of a competition between them as to who can outdo the other’s cleverness. Their occasional volleys of nonessential banter in increasingly sophisticated code provides a welcome reprieve from the more tedious aspects of her current work.

Charter stifles a yawn as she watches the sisters move about the yard on their morning tasks. At this point she’s memorized most of their movements, but Charter perks up when a sister emerges from the side door of the chantry. While she logs the activities of all who reside at or frequent the chantry, most seem to be of little consequence to the Grand Cleric. But there is one person, Sister Natalie, who is almost always seen with Victoire at both her sermons in Morelle and on official business in Halamshiral and Val Royeaux. Her privileged position at the Grand Cleric’s side implies a certain level of confidence between the two of them, leading Charter to assume that if Victoire were plotting against Justinia then Natalie would certainly be involved. 

Natalie is dressed in sister's robes and a cloak that’s too heavy for the mild weather. She moves briskly through the yard, politely greeting the other sisters with a tight smile as she passes through the gates. Charter drops the apple core and heads to a side window overlooking the alley.

She lifts the panel up and climbs out onto the ledge. Shuffling along the wall until she’s over the second floor entrance, she drops to the landing, swiftly moving down the flight of stairs to the street level. She pulls up her hood and emerges from the alley, looking left and right. She sees Natalie down the street to her left, heading away from the market and the middle of the city. Charter stays back far enough that if Natalie were to turn she would easily blend into the other passersby. 

She trails Natalie as she detours down a side alley where a cloaked man waits. Charter carefully works her way down the alley, inching forward behind the cover of boxes and barrels, keeping in the shadows until she’s within earshot of their conversation. 

Natalie reaches under the cloak to reveal a bag of what can only be a substantial amount of coin. She presents it to the man and he tests its weight in his hand. “This is all of it?” 

Natalie nods. “The amount is as we agreed.” 

He puts the bag away beneath his own cloak. “Tell the Grand Cleric that she will have the support of many Templars should she stand against the threat to our holy calling.”  

So Victoire buys favor, but from which Templars? Charter stays hidden as Natalie passes by, then pursues the man leaving in the opposite direction. She follows him all the way to the city stables. 

He says hardly a word to the horsemaster as he prepares his horse. The tack is nondescript, no leatherwork of note, no decorative adornments. Charter watches as he mounts and trots towards the imperial highway. She waits for him to turn his horse east, towards Val Royeaux or Lydes, but he turns west and spurs his horse to a gallop. Does he ride for Jader? Ferelden?

Charter retraces her steps back through the city. When she turns onto the alley behind the warehouse, there’s a raven hopping across the railing of the second floor landing, a tiny roll of parchment tied to its leg. Charter ascends the stairs, carefully not to frighten the bird.

The raven gives up its message with only a light peck to Charter’s hand. The first time they met, the bird had nearly drawn blood before Charter finally gave up and bribed it with fruit in exchange for his cargo. Since arriving in Halamshiral she’s found it harder to work with Leliana’s ravens than to coordinate with her entire spy network in the city. 

She steps away from the bird and unfurls the parchment, reading over Leliana’s clean script. The Divine has decided to call for a conclave between the mages and the Templars. She is to set affairs in order here and ride for Val Royeaux.

 

********************************

The dimly lit tavern on the outskirts of Val Royeaux is nearly empty. A few patrons sit at the wooden bar, heads drooping over their mugs. The bartender moves around them as though they’re part of the structure itself, wiping smooth circles across the bar surface with a thin rag. Leliana watches him from a table in the back, half hidden in the shadows beneath the stairs to the attic. 

The bartender nods his head in time as the tavern minstrel plays a passable rendition of a well known Orlesian folk song. Her voice is fair but she’s singing half an octave out of range and the highest two strings on her lute are just slightly flat. Most wouldn’t even notice, but it grates on Leliana’s ears. 

These days she hardly has time for music, a finely crafted lute neglected in her quarters except on the occasions when Justinia invites her to the Divine’s private apartments to play. After years of employing her talents as weapons in the Imperial Court, playing for Justinia and the children who visited the chantry at Valence had reminded Leliana that such gifts could help rather than harm.

But Justinia has become far more than just the Revered Mother of a small sea-side chantry and Leliana is no longer a young woman hiding from her past. To protect the Divine, to see her vision realized, has required all the skills Leliana learned from Marjolaine and more besides. 

She used to pray that the Maker might forgive her for what she did during her years at court, that he would guide her back to the light. Her prayers were answered through Justinia, the savior who showed her unconditional love through devotion to the Maker. Now the Divine would see His light reach every corner of Thedas; if Leliana must walk ahead in the darkness to bring it there, so be it.   

“That’s another one to me.”

The three men at the table to her left have been playing cards all evening, though more of their coin has gone to ale than to their game. The winner of this round pulls a stack of coin to his side of the table.  His doublet is finely made, the work of one of the better tailors in the city. Leliana knows him to be the youngest son of a duke: another minor lord with too much money and too little purpose. Such men can be found in the taverns and brothels of every city in Orlais. 

He restacks his coins, looking to his companions. “Another hand?” 

“I’ll go one more.” The man to his left leans back and stretches his arms over his head. 

This one is a personal courier in town on business for a count from Lydes. Leliana is not surprised to hear that he is a visitor: the leather work on his vest is masterful but lacking the distinct flare expected from the inhabitants of Val Royeaux. Of greater interest is that he’s meeting with someone in the employ of the Marquise de Bouffon, a sworn enemy of his employer.

The third man pushes his chair back and begins to stand. “If I lose one more copper my wife’ll have my head.”  

He has a slight accent, less polished than those educated in the better schools of Val Royeaux and other cities throughout Orlais. His clothes are well kept but not new. Most likely a merchant from outside the city. 

The young lord puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him. “I’ll buy everyone another round if you’ll stay. One hand. Winner takes all. What do you say?”

Another round is the last thing these men need, but it’s certainly made Leliana’s eavesdropping easier. The merchant sits back down. “One more can’t hurt.” 

The lord sits back, pleased with himself. “Good. Now who's going to deal?” 

Good, indeed. The more the lord wins the more he drinks, the more he drinks the more he talks. Over the course of the evening Leliana has learned that his father has aligned himself with Grand Duke Gaspard and betrothed his son to a woman from a deeply religious noble family. 

It would be a good match if not for the fact that the young lord plans to secretly marry a dancer he met at a salon. Under normal circumstances such scandalous information could be lucrative, but if Justinia’s final gamble to stop the war is unsuccessful, Orlesian intrigue will be little more than a triviality. 

Leliana takes a small sip from her own mug of bitter ale as the courier shuffles the cards. By now she has learned all their tells so it’s not difficult to predict how this will go.  The merchant will have the better hand but the lord will win by a better bluff. The courier will fold early, distracted by the minstrel who has been sending him inviting looks all evening. It’s too easy. It bores her. She considers how long she’s been here: nearly two candle marks. Charter will be here by now. 

With a last look at the swill in her mug, Leliana stands, raising the hood on her cloak as she moves towards the door. She steps out into the cool night air, blinking as her eyes adjust to the darkness of the street. She turns north towards the center of the city as another hooded figure falls into step beside her. 

“I would have come in for a drink but the ale at this place tastes like pure piss.”

Leliana smiles. In the year they’ve worked together she and Charter haven’t had many opportunities to cross paths in person: Leliana has been confined to Val Royeaux except on matters of highest importance at foreign courts and Charter has only come to the city to debrief every few months. 

“I’ll be sure to choose a place more suitable to your fine tastes next time.” Despite the logistical inconvenience, they’ve shared enough evenings in taverns for Leliana to know Charter to have a discerning palate when it comes to ale, as much as such a thing can exist. 

“As long as I don’t have to drink from one of those ridiculous golden goblets people here are so fond of, I’m sure I’ll be able to get by. ” 

Leliana laughs. The last few months at the Grand Cathedral have left her heavy with dread for the war and Justinia’s safety. Even within the Chantry walls there are few she trusts, fewer still to whom she would speak freely. But Charter’s presence lightens her step. “I see you’ve missed missed Val Royeaux.”

“Oh yes.” Charter’s eye roll does not go unnoticed. “There’s also news from Halamshiral, but not to be discussed here.” 

The exchange is broken by the sound of footsteps behind them. As the source gets closer, Leliana recognizes the young lord from the card game stepping out of the shadows. He is nearly breathless when he comes to a stop in front of her. 

“My lady! Forgive me but I saw you at the tavern and thought perhaps I could escort you home. So beautiful a woman undefended would make an easy target for bandits.” 

Leliana continues walking. “No need, my lord. I’m sure you’ll be missed at the tables.”

“Yes, but I doubt the competition would be so lovely. Perhaps we can play a hand back at my estate? I’ve just received a shipment of wine from Antiva. An excellent vintage.”

The man steps close enough that Leliana call smell the ale on his breath. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Charter moving a step to her left, flanking him. It’s exactly what she would do if their roles were reversed. “A generous offer but I’m afraid we must be going.”

He finally looks over at Charter. Her face turned back towards the tavern lights, the hood can’t hide the fact that she’s an elf. He smirks. 

“You can bring your servant if you like. I find knife-ears to be particularly enticing.”

The dagger is at his throat before his next breath. She can see his pulse throbbing from the vein in his neck as she drags the blade up under his jaw to the base of his right ear.  “Call her knife-ear again and I’ll cut off one of your own.”

The man steps back quickly. “I-- I see. Pardon my mistake. A good evening to you.”

Leliana watches him scramble back towards the tavern before turning to Charter, who is staring at her with an unreadable expression. It’s been years since someone looked at her so openly without Leliana being able to discern the meaning behind it. She quickly puts the dagger back up her sleeve and hurries up the street.

Charter nearly jogs to keep up with Leliana’s longer stride. ”I didn’t know you felt so strongly about elves.”

Leliana slows down. “ I believe we are all are equal in the Maker’s eyes. The Hero of Ferelden was from the alienage in Denerim. Our time travelling together made me rethink many things I’d been taught growing up in Orlais.”

Charter nods but says nothing. Her silence may be simply polite concurrence, or a judgement on her privileged human upbringing.  It bothers Leliana not to know which.  

“We should get back to the Grand Cathedral, there is much to discuss.”

 

********************************

The perfectly cobbled streets of the residential quarter in Val Royeaux wind around blocks of grand homes, many hidden behind gates and well constructed walls. Charter has been to many of the great cities of Thedas: Antiva City, Dairsmuid, Starkhaven, Denerim. All are out shown by the gilded excess of Val Royeaux. 

Many see Val Royeaux as a city of opportunity, but where dreams are born they can also die. Charter has known many spies and overambitious young assassins who came here in search of fame and glory. Few left the Imperial Court with either, if they made it home at all. For all it’s ornate structures, Val Royeaux is a city built on blood. 

Leliana would know this better than most. She walks beside Charter in silence, eyes scanning their surroundings looking for any sign of trouble. Leliana’s fame as a bard still lives despite years away from court. There she would have played for the highest personal stakes, but in service of the Divine she must go even beyond that. How many blades wait in the shadows for her?  

They aren’t far from the Grand Cathedral now but Leliana slows to a stop along the front wall of one of the houses. The unguarded gate is less than ten paces away. Leliana whistles a low melody and a series of high chirps come from a bird on the other side of the wall.  

Leliana shakes her head and gestures for Charter to follow her. They move silently down the street and up an alley behind the back garden. Charter looks around, the alley is empty but she whispers anyway. “What’re we doing here?”

Leliana drops her hood, putting her hands on her hips. “It would seem there are assassins in my house again. I’m going to get rid of them.”

Again? If Leliana wants to play off a house full of assassins as a minor inconvenience that’s her choice, but it doesn’t mean Charter has to go along with it. Leliana’s not even wearing armor. “I’m coming with you.”

Leliana smiles. “That will make things much easier. Shall we?” 

She leans back against the wall and points up towards the top. She bends her knees then cups her hands, looking at Charter expectantly. Charter steps into her palms and Leliana boosts her up onto a wall. She straddles the wall to gain balance then leans down to give Leliana a hand up. 

But Leliana just shakes her head and backpedals down the alley. She takes a few bounding steps forward before jumping towards the opposite wall, pushing off with her left foot to change direction and let the momentum carry her up and across. She grabs the edge of the wall beside Charter and pulls herself up, swinging a leg over in one fluid motion. She cocks an eyebrow at Charter as she hops down into the grass below.

It’s a completely unnecessary display; there are plenty of people in their line of work capable of acrobatics, but the ease with which Leliana moves is impressive. Charter quickly jumps to the ground.They move quietly through the garden, keeping to the shadows beneath the trees until they reach the back of the house. 

Leliana creeps up to a set of double doors. She tries the handle: unlocked. She pushes one of the doors open slightly before stepping back to Charter and drawing two daggers from beneath her cloak. Charter pulls one of her own from the sheath on her belt. 

With her free hand Charter pushes the other door far enough open for Leliana to slip through then follows her inside. It’s dark and Charter waits for her eyes to adjust to the sight of an extravagant dining area or some other sort of entertainment space the Orlesians are so fond of. But this room is a library with bookshelves stretching from the floor to the ceiling. 

Leliana heads for an archway into the foyer directly across the room, motioning for Charter to check the other open door to their right. Charter creeps along the bookshelves towards the doorway. She pauses, picking up the faint sound of movement in the room ahead. 

There’s someone just inside. She inches forward to the threshold before reaching across with her left hand and pulling the assassin into the doorway, drawing the blade in her right hand across his throat. 

He falls and Charter steps over his writhing body into the next room: a sitting room with a fireplace and stairs that lead to the second floor. She heads for the stairs just as Leliana comes around the corner from the other side, blood dripping from her own weapons. Charter reaches into one of the pockets of her leather vest, pulling out a handful of caltrops. Leliana looks at them and nods. Caltrops in one hand and dagger in the other, Charter goes up the stairs first with Leliana just behind.

The second floor landing opens onto a short hallway, no more than fifteen paces between the landing and the door at the other end. There are two other doors in between, one on each side. Before they reach the top of the stairs a masked assassin emerges from the door on the left and runs towards them. 

Charter tosses the caltrops down the hall. They roll beneath the assassin’s feet and he trips up with a muffled cry. Charter kicks him in the face, sending him flying onto his back. Her dagger is in his heart before he can get up, but the commotion brings two more armed men out of the bedroom at the end of the hall. 

Charter wrenches her blade from the man’s chest as Leliana runs by to engage their newest assailants. Leliana dances between their blades, parrying at blinding speed. Charter watches for an opening. One of the men slashes wildly at Leliana. She dodges the blow, letting his momentum carry him forward onto one of her own daggers. 

The move exposes Leliana’s flank and the remaining assassin sidesteps the body between them to capitalize. Unable to block his strike, Charter slams into him shoulder-first, knocking them both through the doorway into the next room. He rolls on top of her, raising his dagger. She puts up an arm to block and hears the air whistle above her head. The assassin drops his weapon, the point of a blade sticking out of his chest. 

Leliana shoves him to the side and rips out the dagger, leaving him to bleed out on the carpet. She extends her other hand to Charter. “Are you all right? I wasn’t expecting that many of them.”

Charter takes it as she rises. “How’d you know they were here?” 

Leliana walks through bedroom and Charter follows. The bedframe is Orlesian in style but the craftwork is clean and restrained, showcasing the wood it was carved from rather than covering it in gold or paint. 

“Few things in Val Royeaux are truly secret, and what is must be guarded with the utmost care. Justinia’s enemies know that if something were to happen to me the Divine would be exposed, vulnerable. Before I was called to serve her I was happy to have a home here, but now that I am Left Hand it is little more than a liability.”

“You haven’t hired guards?” Charter follows her into the adjacent room, looking for any remaining visitors. The desk and wardrobe are of similar quality to the bed and the floor is covered in soft carpet. It’s Ferelden in design. 

Leliana pulls a rag out of a drawer in the desk and wipes the blood from her dagger before sliding it back into her waistband. “Guards can be bought off.”

Charter leans against the wall, arms crossed. “So you just rely on a bird in the garden?” 

Leliana tosses the bloody rag back onto the desk and walks past her out of the room, stepping over the dead men on her way to the stairs. “Care for an animal, show it you can be trusted, and it will be loyal to you. Do the same for a person and they’ll betray you without a second thought.”

Betrayal between spies isn’t just a disappointment, a show of disloyalty, or personal slight. Even the best are forced to rely on others sometimes, and putting trust in the wrong person can easily get you killed. If Leliana crossed paths with such misfortune at some point in the past, she’s lucky to have survived it. 

They descend the stairs and retrace their steps to the library. Now that the threat has been eliminated, Charter takes a closer look at the contents of the shelves. Most of the titles are in Orlesian or the common tongue, but there are a few in Antivan. “I had no idea you liked books so much.” 

Leliana nods, looking around the room. “I would bring them all to the Grand Cathedral if I had somewhere to put them. But yes, I am fond of stories. Would you believe me if I said it was one of the reasons I wanted to become a bard?” 

“So why not just become a minstrel then?” Charter heard many things about Leliana before they met. None of them were the types of stories one would associate with a well-read girl who enjoyed folktales. 

Leliana runs her hand over a row of books, touching them with a gentle reverence before heading for the front door. She ushers Charter out of the house with a wry smile. 

“I wanted more. I was young and ambitious, but had no noble title to give me a place at court. I met a woman who offered me a way in. I trained with her for years, worked for her as a bard. She was truly a master of the game; I could never have become what I am now if not for her.”

Charter follows her out the gate and back onto the street. “Does she still play?”

Leliana slams the gate shut. “She’s dead.”

Leliana’s words carry none of the grief of a lost loved one, nor the dark glee of vengeance against an enemy. Instead the statement is empty, entirely devoid of emotion. Whatever happened with this woman must have cut her deeply. “I’m sorry.”

They start walking again in the direction of the Grand Cathedral. Leliana looks up at the shadowy silhouette of the Grand Cathedral in the night sky. 

“I’m not. In her absence the Maker gave me new purpose: He guided me to Justinia. Even before she was named Divine she had the courage to do what others would not, to call for reform in the Chantry so that all might know the Makers love as we do. The conclave and the road to peace will be difficult. There is nowhere I would rather be now than at her side.” 

Charter knows little of the Divine except that she seeks more rights for the mages. It is a radical position to humans, but it means little to her. When Empress Celine massacred the elves at Halamshiral, Justinia was silent. In her travels elsewhere Charter has met many surface dwarves and even some Qunari who call themselves Andrastian. Are they welcome in Justinia’s chantry? Leliana speaks of inclusion, draws a dagger without hesitation in her defense. But if the Divine shares Leliana’s sentiments, Charter has yet to see it.

 

********************************

Cassandra’s footsteps echo off the marble floors of the Grand Cathedral’s administrative wing. Sunlight streams in from the windows facing east, glinting off of her freshly-polished armor.  

In two days Justinia will begin the journey to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Before the Nevarran Accord was broken, the Divine would be accompanied on such a perilous trip by the Knights Divine and a contingent of Templars for additional protection. But with many Templars joining the rebellion, Cassandra has been forced to call upon the remaining Seekers to round out the guard. She and Leliana are to discuss the security situation with the Divine this morning.

She quickly makes her way down the corridor and steps into Justinia’s office with a curt nod to the Knights Divine standing guard outside. The Divine stands in front of her desk talking with Leliana and an Elven woman Cassandra doesn’t recognize. 

The elf wears well-made leather armor of a similar fashion to Leliana’s own. Cassandra is aware that Leliana employs many agents, but they are rarely seen with her in public. To introduce one to the Divine would be unprecedented.

The conversation seems cordial so it is likely of less importance than what she and Leliana are really here to discuss. She clears her throat as politely as she can and the Divine turns. 

“Cassandra, good morning.” 

Cassandra makes a short bow. “Good morning, Most Holy. I am sorry to interrupt.” 

“No need to apologize, there is much work to be done.” Justinia beckons Cassandra closer before turning her attention back to the elf, a warm smile on her face. “The Chantry’s doors will always be open to you, child. Maker go with you.” 

The elf bows. “Thank you, Your Perfection.” 

She and Leliana share a look as she walks out, closing the door behind her. There has surely been some critical exchange of information between them; only Leliana would see fit to develop a form of telepathy for her work, as if secret messages and shadowy meetings weren’t enough. Cassandra feels a headache coming on.

The Divine walks back around to the other side of her desk and sits, placing her elbows on the desk and lacing her hands together as though in prayer. Cassandra does not sit, nor does Leliana. 

Justinia looks between them expectantly before settling on Cassandra. “I trust all is well?”

Cassandra nods. “Yes, Most Holy. We wanted to discuss preparations for the conclave. The journey to the Temple of Sacred Ashes is dangerous and we cannot know all who might attempt to gain entrance to the conclave. We still have the support of the Knights Divine and the remaining Seekers, but I worry that if someone were to wish you harm we would not be able to provide adequate protection.”

Justinia looks to Leliana. “What are your thoughts on this?”

Leliana clasps her hands behind her back as she begins pacing beside the desk. “My agents have yet to expose any plots against you, but I do share Cassandra’s concern in this. We must be prepared for anything.”

“I will remain at your side during the proceedings while Leliana and her agents make sure there are no surprises.” It is rare that she and Leliana see eye to eye, but in this they are of one mind. It is Cassandra’s duty as Right Hand to protect the Divine and Leliana values Justinia’s life above all else, for reasons spiritual and otherwise. 

Justinia leans back. “It is tradition that the Left and Right Hands stand with the Divine at events of such great importance. But those were days in which threats to the Chantry came from beyond our own walls, not from within.”

Cassandra frowns. “Yes. This is why we must stay close to you.”

Justinia sits up straighter. “No. You must do the opposite. I forbid you both from attending.”

Leliana stops. “What?” 

Justinia’s voice is unwavering. “I know the attempts to find the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall were unsuccessful, but I believe that together you can still do what must be done.”

This is madness. Cassandra steps forward, fists tightening. “Most Holy, please--”

But Justinia puts up a hand to silence her as she reaches into her desk, pulling out a document sealed in red wax. She hands it to Leliana, who looks as though she’s been slapped. 

“This writ gives you the authority to reform the Inquisition. I trust you will know when the time comes to act upon it.” 


	3. Silence

Haven, 9:41 Dragon

*****************************************

Josephine hovers close to the candle on her desk as she carefully crafts a letter to a Ferelden lord. Each time the massive doors to Haven’s chantry are opened a draft sweeps through and the building seems to absorb more of the chill outside. Josephine shivers, lifting her quill from the parchment to keep from spoiling her penmanship.

A silk blouse was perhaps not the most practical choice for these conditions, but as the ambassador of the Inquisition it is important that she maintain a certain degree of decorum in behavior and fashion. There are few visiting dignitaries yet, but Haven’s mix of soldiers, refugees, and rebel mages will do little on their own to inspire support from the nobility when they arrive.

The Inquisition does have some assets that could work to its advantage. Cassandra is a member of the Nevarran royal line; if she were willing to assist, perhaps Josephine could secure an alliance with Nevarra. Such a relationship would surely set a precedent for support from the other monarchies of southern Thedas.

Josephine quickly signs the letter she’s been working on and sprinkles it with a bit of pounce. Within a few moments the ink is dry and she shakes the pounce back into the pot on her desk and folds the letter, sealing it with wax. She sets it aside and gets up. Cassandra is likely on the training grounds. 

She steps out of her office into the chantry proper and hears raised voices coming from the war room. The heavy oak door is closed and while the words are inaudible, Josephine recognizes the voices of the occupants. She sighs and pulls the door open, stepping inside. The door clicks shut behind her but neither Cassandra nor Leliana notice.

Cassandra paces in front of the table. “You sent assassins to talk to the grand clerics? What if someone had been killed?! We may be branded heretics but if we had aligned with the Templars at least we would be considered civilized.”

Leliana scoffs. “Civilized? Half the clerics have their own mercenaries, some of whom are members of the Order. Really Cassandra, have you become so blind?”

Josephine flinches as Cassandra’s fist cracks against the tabletop. “Blind? I am a Seeker, Leliana!”

Leliana points at Cassandra as she stalks towards her. “All these years you’ve buried your head in the sand. The Chantry is corrupt and what it’s done to the mages is a sin in the Maker’s eyes. Justinia wanted to change this but you never cared for her cause!

Leliana is toe to toe with Cassandra now, but the Seeker doesn’t back down. “My duty was to protect her, not involve myself in Chantry politics. But how could I do that when you encouraged her recklessness at every turn? I may not have loved her as you did but I am not the only one here who has been blind!”

Before this can devolve further, Josephine clears her throat. “I am sorry to interrupt. I was hoping for a word with Lady Cassandra.”

Cassandra steps away from Leliana, who glares at her for a moment before sweeping past Josephine and shoving the door open. “She’s all yours.”  

The door hits the wall with a bang and Josephine winces.

Cassandra eyes flick to Josephine. “I apologize.” 

Josephine nods. “These are trying times for us all.” 

Cassandra shifts on her feet and looks away. “I am afraid things have been...difficult with Leliana since Justinia’s death.” 

Leliana and Cassandra have presented a united front in forming the Inquisition, but it is obvious now that their relationship before the conclave was not entirely symbiotic. Josephine does not find the tension surprising. Cassandra first served under Divine Beatrix, a known moderate, but Justinia was a reformist and Leliana perhaps her most ardent supporter.

Josephine sighs. “I have no doubt. I knew Leliana would take the Divine’s death badly, but I must admit I did not expect this. I’m worried about her.” 

The Leliana she sees in Haven bears almost no resemblance to the woman she knew in Val Royeaux. The warmth and humor Josephine has always associated with her is gone, replaced by something intangibly cold and harsh. Even before Justinia ascended, Leliana spoke of her with a reverence most would reserve for the Maker himself. It was clear that much of Leliana belonged to Justinia, perhaps too much. Now that she’s gone it seemed she’d taken some great part of Leliana with her. 

Cassandra nods her agreement. “As am I.” 

The words are unexpectedly sincere considering what Josephine just witnessed. As far as Josephine knows Cassandra and Leliana have never been close, but who could claim to understand the bond between those who served the Divine so closely? 

After a long moment Cassandra seems to gather herself, finally facing Josephine fully. “What do you wish to ask me?”

Josephine meets Cassandra’s eyes and the war room no longer feels so cold. This is the first time she’s ever spoken to Cassandra alone; most of their encounters have been during war table meetings or in passing around Haven. In full armor she is a striking figure, despite her severe expression. 

“Ahem.” Cassandra looks at her expectantly but now that she has Cassandra’s undivided attention, Josephine can’t remember why she’s here.

“I…” She looks past Cassandra to the war table. The map. “I wanted to ask you about reaching out to your family in Nevarra. The Inquisition needs allies, as you know, and the support of the Nevarran crown would give us a much needed degree of legitimacy.”

Cassandra’s crosses her arms. “I have not been to Nevarra in many years. I have little relationship to the crown there.”

Little relationship? Even if far removed from the throne it is nearly impossible that Cassandra has no influence. “I know you have been with the Seekers for some time, but surely you have some family there we could contact.”

The muscles in Cassandra’s jaw flex. “I have nothing in Nevarra.”

Her tone is sharp and Josephine instantly regrets her miscalculation. Little is known about Cassandra’s life before the Seekers. That is obviously intentional. “I see. I apologize if I have offended you by asking. 

Cassandra shakes her head. “You have not, but I am needed in the training yard. Excuse me, ambassador.”

Cassandra strides out of the chantry, nodding to Mother Giselle as she passes. When Josephine accepted Leliana’s offer to join the Inquisition she had expected it would be a challenge. She had learned much about the Game in her post as Antivan ambassador but the idea of working at so high a level as the Inquisition provided was thrilling. It has only been a few months but the novelty has already worn off. 

When Josephine agreed to the position she had naively assumed she would have access to both Leliana’s knowledge of the Game and Cassandra’s lineage in order to build a stable platform from which to work. What she has been given instead are two women who seem to have little care for how their personal feelings may be fracturing the Inquisition from the inside out.

It is a scenario that leaves Josephine far out of her depth, but she cannot afford to submit to her own anxieties. Regardless of the personal crises of its founders, there is no turning back for the Inquisition. They now must try to bring stability to Thedas or face the unthinkable prospect of total war.

Josephine walks back to her office. She will need to write many more letters if they are going to have any chance of being successful.

 

*****************************************

Between the late hours of the night and the early hours of morning, Leliana stands outside the seneschal's tent listening to the wind blowing through the frozen trees. The first time she came to Haven it was in the summer. She and the rest of those travelling with the Warden camped under the stars. That trip had been a pilgrimage, a quest of holy merit. Justinia had seen the conclave as the same. Now her ashes lay where Andraste’s once rested.

Those who caused the disaster at the Temple had not been the only traitors in their midst. Experience has taught her that such betrayals should be dealt with swiftly, and it had been her intention to use Butler as an example to dissuade others from disloyalty.

The Herald has demanded that she spare Butler’s life, so now the man she once called friend sits in the cells below the chantry. The agent who informed him that he would be spared reported to her that he had wept at the news and proclaimed his renewed loyalty to Leliana. Pathetic.

Trevelyan is surely pleased but little more could be expected of one so naive. He was not born to his position as Herald, nor did he rise to it by his own efforts.  Before the conclave he was just the wayward youngest son of a noble family. In time he will come to understand that fear is necessary to hold power.   

Justinia knew this. Many within the Chantry were incensed by her ideas of reform and Leliana went to extreme measures to keep the Divine’s enemies at bay. If she had been at the conclave she would not have hesitated to cut down whoever would have done the Divine harm. She had taken hundreds of lives in Justinia’s name, by order or by her own blade. She would take a thousand more if it would bring Justinia back. But that was not to be.

Maybe Cassandra was right, and she had encouraged Justinia too much. But what else could have been done? If Justinia could not end the war, who could? The conclave was a risk, one that would have been mitigated if Leliana had been by Justinia’s side to protect her. But she was not. When Justinia had cried out for help Leliana had not heard, and now Justinia is gone.

Leliana turns on her heel and throws the tent flap open, storming inside. The few candles lit at her worktable do nothing to warm the space but it’s of little consequence: the hot shame of her failure rolls up her spine, over her shoulders and down her arms to her fingertips.

Leliana rips off her gloves and hood before unclasping the Chantry insignia across her chest to yank the chainmail armor over her head. It hits the ground with a thump and now there is nothing but the sound of her own breathing.

The chant says that in the beginning, the heavens and earth were filled with silence. Does this world end as it began? She has called out to the Maker over and over since the conclave, but He says nothing. He has abandoned her; abandoned them all. What cruel god betrays the faithful? 

There are so many questions. If the Maker has the answers He refuses to provide them to her. She is forsaken; would He even care if she fell on her own blade? Her stomach contracts and Leliana fights down the bile as it rises in her throat. 

She must not think of such things. Her life may be worthless but there are many innocents throughout Thedas who can be saved if the breach is closed and the war ended. For the Inquisition’s sake, she must continue her work.

Leliana walks swiftly over to a locked box in the corner of the tent. She pulls a key from the chain beneath her leather underarmor and opens it. She withdraws a short multi-tailed whip and runs her fingers through nine supple chords of ram leather with double knots near their tips.

According to the Chantry’s teachings the tempered soul is everlasting, but surely the Maker would agree that the soul of someone who has committed sins as great as hers requires more tempering than others. She strives to be deserving of the Maker’s love, but His silence reminds her now of just how unworthy she is.  

Tears burn her eyes and blur her vision as she sets the whip on the table. Tasting the salt on her lips, she unbuckles her leather underarmor and strips to the waist. She picks up the whip and drops to her knees in the middle of the tent, greaves crunching on the half frozen ground. 

“As there is but one world, one life, one death, there is but one god, and He is our Maker.”

The whip sings over her left shoulder, snapping against her flesh.

“They are sinners, who have given their love to false gods.”

The second strike is more forceful, kissing the skin over her right shoulder blade. She takes a breath and continues through the second and third commandments, allowing her strikes to become more forceful. The repetition soothes her and she begins the fourth commandment with renewed fervor. 

“All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings.” 

Leliana attended many of Justinia’s sermons on the equality of men even before she became Divine. Back then Justinia had seemed larger than life behind the pulpit, her mortality inconceivable. The cruel reality of her death is too painful to face so Leliana focuses instead on trying to feel each cord as it hits, each knot as it lacerates her flesh.  Her mind settles into the meditation of the chant and the pain.

“Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker.”

She has killed countless people at the command of Marjolaine and Justinia. Were her victims innocents? Perhaps not. But few had committed a crime greater than being in the way of someone else’s ambition. She had reveled in many of their deaths nonetheless.

The whip snaps back in front of her, flinging drops of blood onto the snow. 

“Those who bear false witness and work to deceive others, know this: There is but one Truth.” 

She can feel the blood flowing down her back, slipping beneath the waist of her leather trousers. Spots dance across her vision. Sleep, often elusive, seems so close. She forces herself to stay upright, gripping the whip tightly.

“All things are known to our Maker and He shall judge their lies.”

She has asked the Maker’s forgiveness many times for the terrible things she’s done, but in those prayers she omits crimes committed in His name. Surely the Maker knows as she does that some sins are necessary to bring His word to all of Thedas.

A voice in the back of her head says this is a lie, and with all her remaining strength Leliana slings the whip over her shoulder. 

The pain is glorious.

 

*****************************************

Charter arrives at Haven a few hours before dawn. There is little noise but the wind rushing through the trees and Charter finds the tranquility of the village a welcome reprieve compared to the chaos of the week she just spent in Val Royeaux.

With so many clerics vocal in their condemnation of the Herald, Leliana had dispatched Charter and a small contingent of agents with the appropriate skills to pay them visits at the Grand Cathedral. The majority of the clerics were quick to swallow their tongues when confronted directly about their positions. Those who weren’t so eager were reminded that if the Inquisition could infiltrate their private quarters for a friendly conversation, they could certainly find their way back for less savory purposes. 

Charter steels herself against the wind as she walks along the path through the village to drop off her extra travelling gear outside Threnn’s empty tent. She avoids the Quartermaster as much as possible; the constant barrage of anti-elf slurs and condescension has grated at her patience. Still, it wouldn’t be looked on kindly if Charter stabbed her in broad daylight. 

The area outside the chantry is quiet, the central fire little more than glowing embers. She sees a figure in scout’s gear standing outside of Leliana’s tent. He’s mumbling to himself so loudly he hardly notice her as she approaches. 

“Pellane?”

He jumps. “Agent Charter! One of the other scouts said Sister Nightingale let Butler live. Is it true?” 

Leliana’s decision about Butler had been surprising even to her; of course the scouts would be talking about it. “Yeah, he’s been down in the jail for a week.”

Pellane’s shoulders drop. “Oh thank the Maker, maybe she won’t kill me then.”

“Why would she kill you?”

He holds up a piece of folded parchment. “I was meant to deliver a report to her directly a few hours ago but I couldn’t get back because of fighting on the road.”

Charter fights to keep herself from laughing. Pellane is more highly strung than most of the new recruits but he means well. “You think she’s going to kill you over being _late_? More likely she’s worried something happened to you.”   

He frowns. “I--oh. Her tent isn’t open, I don’t know if she’s there or where else to go.”

She holds out a gloved hand. “Just give me the report, I’ll make sure she gets it.”

Pellane smiles gratefully as he hands it over. “Thanks, Charter. I owe you.”

He hurries away and Charter walks over to Leliana’s tent. Between the ground and the door flaps she can see dim light coming through the crack. Leliana must be inside. She pushes the flap open. “Sister Nightingale, sorry to interrupt, I--”

Leliana lies on her side on the icy ground, legs tucked beneath her. The snow around her is stained pink with blood. 

“Shit.” 

Charter rushes to Leliana’s side and pulls off her gloves, putting two fingers to the Spymaster’s neck to find a pulse. Satisfied that she’s alive, Charter carefully examines her injuries. The front of her body is untouched, but her back is a bloody mess. Leliana is well muscled from years of shooting a bow, but the gashes are deep. She must have passed out from the pain.

Near one of her limp hands there is a short whip lying in the snow. Charter’s stomach drops. Since the conclave Leliana has been withdrawn, unwilling to speak of it to anyone. Josephine comes to the tent to check on her but Leliana just sends her away. She and Cassandra fight more days than not. Charter had thought it best to give her space, to do as much as she could to make Leliana’s job easier in the hopes that Leliana would recognize her silent support. It wasn’t enough.

Charter pulls off her heavy cloak and gently covers Leliana with it before standing and stepping out of the tent. She takes off at a run up the hill to the apothecary. The windows are dark; Aidan must be sleeping. Charter pulls out a set of lockpicks and makes quick work of the iron springs before easing the door open. 

She pads silently across the room to the jars of salves sitting in rows on one of the tables, picking up a roll of bandages on the way. She holds one of the jars up to the light coming in through the windows from the breach outside. Royal elfroot.

She slips back out with the bandages and salve in tow and runs back to Leliana’s tent. She shoves inside and comes to a halt. Leliana is on her feet, an arm over her bare chest. The whip is nowhere in sight. “What’re you doing here?” 

Charter holds up the salve. “I need to put this on your back.” 

Leliana steps back, swaying slightly. “You don’t need--” 

“If you get an infection in this weather it could kill you.”

They stare at one another before Leliana looks down at the bloody snow between them. They both know this is necessary. There are quicker methods but no healer can be trusted not to get a few pints deep at the tavern and talk about what they’ve seen.

Leliana nods and Charter walks behind her. She sets the bandages on the table and opens the jar. There are so many wounds it’s hard to know where to begin.

They don’t speak while Charter gently applies the salve. She takes note of older scars down the lower parts of Leliana’s back, jagged white lines slicing across the muscle. Leliana doesn’t talk about why she disappeared from the Orlesian court, or why she was in Ferelden when the blight began. Maybe those have something to do with it.

Leliana flinches as Charter dresses the deepest cuts but she doesn’t cry out. It takes nearly the entire jar, but Charter manages to cover all the open wounds. She picks up the roll of bandages. “Can you lift your arms?” 

Leliana slowly raises them just enough for Charter to wrap the bandage multiple times around her ribs and chest, careful not to touch her breasts. When Leliana’s back is fully covered, Charter tucks in the end of the bandage and puts a hand on the top of Leliana’s shoulder as lightly as she can. 

Leliana turns around but keeps her eyes down. “Thank you.”

Charter watches as Leliana gingerly lowers her arms. There are fewer scars on the front of her body, but some are still deep. One on her abdomen looks like a serious knife wound. That explains the chainmail component of her armor, but now she won’t be able wear anything so form-fitting for days. Had Leliana even considered that when she did this? 

“I’ve got a spare tunic you can wear back to your room.”

Leliana’s eyes snap up. “No.” 

Charter picks up her cloak. “You can take this then.” 

Leliana starts to pull her leather underarmor on. The movements are slow and Leliana’s breathing is labored. “I’m fine.” 

“You’re not.” Leliana has often shown a flare for the dramatic but this is ridiculous.

“You should go.” Leliana’s hands are visibly shaking as she carefully adjusts the buckles that adjust the underarmor. Charter wants to reach out and still her movements, to keep her from hurting herself further. Leliana is in no condition to stop her, but Charter forces her hands to stay at her sides.

“Leliana.” Charter tries to catch her eye but Leliana refuses to look at her as she picks up the heavy mail and pulls it over her head. The pain of the weight on her back must be excruciating, but Leliana doesn’t falter. 

She clips the chantry insignia over her chest and raises her hood. Now fully dressed and standing taller, she looks the part of spymaster once more. If Charter hadn’t seen it for herself she wouldn’t believe the injuries hidden beneath Leliana’s armor. This must not be the first time she’s done this.   

Leliana turns away from Charter, her hood now hiding her face. “ I have work to do.”

Charter stares at her back. Leliana thinks she has to carry the weight of her work and her sorrow alone, but Charter would help shoulder the burden if Leliana would let her. Maybe it’s time she said so. “If you ever need someone--”

“I know.” 

Leliana’s shoulders droop but she still doesn’t look up from the table. Charter waits to see if Leliana has more to say. It’s a foolish thing to hope for, and when Leliana still doesn’t turn Charter puts on her cloak and walks back out into the dawn.

 

*****************************************

It would seem that every mage in Ferelden has come to Haven to offer their services in the assault on the breach. Solas goes from group to group, directing some of them towards Haven’s gates and other towards encampments outside the village walls. Cassandra eyes them from her usual place on the training ground; she has been to many Circles throughout Thedas but never seen so many in one place.

Cullen is also watching, though he is quick to direct other Templars back to their training. Cassandra tries to stare down her own training dummy, but little progress has been made in her drills since the mages arrived.

Giving one last whack to the dummy’s head, she tosses her practice sword into the requisition pile and stomps towards the gate. She has accepted that the Herald chose to form an alliance with the mages, but that doesn’t mean someone should not remain vigilant with a small army of apostates in their midst.

Cassandra follows a line of mages snaking from the training ground all the way to the Quartermaster’s tent. There, uniformed members of the Inquisition hand out robes and staffs under Threnn’s watchful eye. She walks past them to join Leliana outside the Spymaster’s tent.

“How long do you think this will take?” 

“A few hours at most. I’ve told the Herald to be ready by mid-afternoon.” Leliana eyes roam over the scene before them.

“Will you come with us to the Temple?” Trevelyan has asked Cassandra to stand with him and Cullen will lead a contingent of soldiers to assist the mages if necessary. Leliana’s role has not been discussed.

Leliana looks down at the snow. “I will remain here. My agents will be with Cullen’s men.” 

It was an ill-conceived question and Cassandra regrets asking. To go to the Temple will be to face Justinia’s death anew, and Leliana already seems to be reliving it constantly. 

The spymaster finally turns her gaze to Cassandra. She is pale but her eyes are sharp. “Mother Giselle and the other sisters are in the Chantry praying for your success. The Maker may yet give us a miracle.” 

A miracle may be what is required. She has seen Trevelyan close many rifts in the Hinterlands and along the Storm Coast, but the breach seems big enough to swallow the entire mountain range. Cassandra nods to Leliana and walks to the Chantry; they will need all the prayers they can get.

 

*****************************************

The night is clear and Charter can see the stars through the barren trees from where she sits around a campfire with six scouting recruits. They’ve spent two days trekking the peaks near Haven so they can practice survival skills and combat tracking. This aspect of training is usually handled by Harding, but Charter had volunteered in the hopes that a few days away from Haven would clear her head. 

The incident in Leliana’s tent was alarming. Part of Charter wants to stand watch at her tent and make sure the whip stays wherever it was before that night, but her offer of support has not been taken up. Leliana continues to work and says nothing about what happened, so Charter respects her wishes and does the same.

One of the recruits pokes at the fire while the others warm their hands. There are dozens of new scouts arriving from the Hinterlands every day in need of training and preliminary assignments. Most come with little more than the clothes on their backs and hopes of finding purpose and friends amongst the other refugee volunteers of the Inquisition.  If Harding were here she’d probably be telling some Ferelden folktales by now, but Charter is content with the quiet. 

She had expected to work alone with the Inquisition as she had done before Leliana found her. Seasoned spies in the field have little to talk about with others except the usual lies fabricated for their covers, but few of the agents recruited since the Inquisition formally began have been prepared for the brutality of the war or the duties required of them. The trauma can easily turn a good agent into a dead one, so Charter now spends many evenings in the tavern making sure the ones who report to her have their heads on straight. 

The sound of wings beating breaks the silence of the woods as a raven swoops down from one of the trees, circling just above them. The bird lets out two low croaks followed by three higher pitches ones in quick succession then repeats the sequence. It’s Leliana’s code for emergency retreat. 

“We need to get back to Haven. Now.”

The recruits look exhausted after a day of marching but each of them scrambles to their feet. Kat, a young woman from Redcliffe, starts pulling on her pack. “How far away are we?” 

Charter picks up her bow from where it rests by her feet and slings it over her shoulder.  “We came up the long way so not as far as you think. Ditch all your gear except for your weapons. If we travel light we can make it in a few hours.” 

The recruits drop their packs and after Charter confirms that each have a hunting knife or daggers along with a bow and some arrows, she leads them down the snowy hill.

It’s dark when they crest the final ridge above Haven and Charter can hear the sounds of fighting even before the village comes into view. She skids to a halt, the recruits beside her. 

The scene below is total chaos as Haven’s inhabitants battle an army pouring in from the hills to the east. She doesn’t see a banner. Who would attack the Inquisition while flying no flag? 

Charter draws an arrow from her quiver. “We need to get down there and help.”

The youngest of the recruits, Damien, steps to her side. He joined the Inquisition at 15 after his parents were killed by heavy fighting in the Hinterlands. The boy’s hands shake but he pulls an arrow and the rest of the recruits hesitantly follow suit. 

Charter is not the military type, but she knows that if the fear of what they are about to do gets to the recruits now they’ll be dead before they get anywhere near the safety of Haven’s gate. Charter must do her best to inspire courage in them. “All your training has prepared you for this moment. The enemy doesn’t know we’re here so we have the element of surprise. Follow me down the hill and we’ll flank them on the left.” 

As they reach the village walls she can hear Cullen calling for Inquisition forces to retreat inside the gates. Many of the Inquisition’s soldiers and mages, including the Herald and his companions, are desperately fighting their way in against an oncoming tide of enemies. She spots Seeker Cassandra locked in combat with a figure wearing what looks to be Templar armor. Cassandra is holding it at bay but its movements are unnaturally fast and forceful; She catches a glimpse of the skin underneath the armor; it glows red. Whatever these things are, they aren’t like any Templars she’s ever seen.

She tracks one as it heads towards an Inquisition mage. She nocks an arrow, draws, exhales, and lets it fly. It goes through the gap in the face of the red Templar’s helmet, sending him stumbling to the ground. 

She turns to the recruits. “Go for the gate!”

They sprint for the massive wooden doors, firing arrows as fast as they can draw them. She motions for the recruits to go in behind her as she lays down cover fire. Charter ducks as spell flies past her. She turns to see a blast of ice shards knock three of the recruits off their feet.

Two of them crawl for the gate, Inquisition forces running out to help them. One doesn’t get up, and she can already see the blood pooling beneath Damien’s limp form. She goes to him anyway, trying to pull his body towards safety. 

They’re less than twenty paces away when a huge red Templar appears, blocking her path. She lets go of Damien and drops her bow. Her archery skills are fine for cover fire, but she is far better with a blade in each hand. Charter reaches for her daggers. 

Before she can strike, a throwing knife is flung down from the rampart above the gate, hitting the Templar in the back of the shoulder. There’s a roar of pain as another knife hits him. Charter looks past the Templar for the thrower on the rampart and sees Butcher, an agent she recruited to work for Leliana before the conclave.

The Templar staggers and Charter takes advantage of the distraction, sprinting towards him and sliding across the ice beneath the Templar’s feet, slicing the tendons at his ankles. The Templar falls to his knees and Charter jumps onto his back, thrusting her daggers into his neck. He falls forward as Charter rips the daggers out, leaping off him and running inside the gate.

Butcher appears next to her a moment later and Charter grabs him, breathless. “Did someone get Damien?” 

“Too late for that, we have to get to the chantry!” Butcher nearly drags her up the path before they both break into a run. Half the cabins are on fire and the tents outside the Chantry are deserted. Where is Leliana? 

A loud explosion ripples through the air behind them and Charter looks up to see a dragon flying over the village. Screams ring out as the terrified crowd desperately shoves their way into the chantry. 

Charter slips through the melee in search of Leliana. There’s a flash of purple amongst a group of refugees and Charter finds her kneeling to wrap a blanket around an old man.

“Nightingale!”

Leliana wheels around, searching the crowd. When her eyes land on Charter she runs over, all but shoving people out of her way. “Are you hurt?” 

Charter looks down. She’s covered in Damien’s blood. “It’s not mine.”

Leliana pulls her into a tight hug. “Thank the Maker.”

The cold metal of Leliana’s armor against her cheek reminds her of Damien’s body covered in ice, of Leliana’s own blood splattered on the snow. Tears threaten as the sorrow collides with relief. She pulls away quickly. “What are we doing?” 

Leliana leads her to where some of the Inquisition’s soldiers are lining up the chantry’s inhabitants and moving them towards the stairs to the lower level of the building. “Chancellor Roderick says there’s a passage beneath the Chantry that will allow us to escape beneath the mountains. They’ll need guides, so get some of the scouts and gather torches.” 

Charter spots Pellane and a few others standing nearby. She motions him over before turning back to Leliana. “What about you?”

“I’m going to find Josephine. Hurry, we don’t have much time.”

 

*****************************************

The Inquisition’s retreat had no clear objective except to run as far as they could from Haven. In that endeavor they have succeeded, so much so that no one seems to have any clue where exactly they have run to. Leliana’s ravens are grounded and even the scouts dare not leave camp until daybreak for fear of not being able to find their way back if the weather turns again. 

In the flickering torchlight, Cullen works to organize guard patrols while Leliana confers with an Elven agent who is distributing supplies to the refugees. There is no diplomatic protocol for how to be a fugitive, so Josephine’s duties are on hold for the foreseeable future. 

She huddles around a fire with some of Haven’s residents. Their clothes are shabby, knees and elbows patched from overuse. She’d put the combined worth of their attire at five silvers. Her attire is worth more than these people might make in a year, but at this point she would trade her entire wardrobe for the heavy wool socks worn by the old man across from her. 

With chattering teeth Josephine pulls her arms close to her chest, trying to trap whatever heat she can. A shadows falls across her face and she looks up to see Cassandra holding out a blanket. 

“Here.” She puts it around Josephine’s shoulders. It smells of hay and horses. For all her dislike of their rustic accommodations at Haven, Josephine would gladly sleep in a barn if it meant she could get off this mountain.

Cassandra puts her hands out toward the fire. She still wears her armor from the battle, and the light from the flames exposes the blood clinging to the metal. Josephine looks up at her. “Can you not sit for a moment? This blanket can cover both of us.” 

Cassandra looks at her then at Cullen’s makeshift workstation nearby. The situation seems more organized than before; a group of soldiers salute and head across the camp on guard patrol. Cassandra sits down on the cold ground beside her but doesn’t accept the blanket. Instead she tucks it more tightly around Josephine.

“Seekers train in the elements but Leliana tells me you are not used to the cold.” 

The comment makes Josephine nostalgic for the summer nights she and Leliana spent making mischief around Val Royeaux. Since coming to Haven, Josephine has tried to reach out but Leliana has been lost to her grief with no regard for the fact that she is not only one suffering. There are many among them who are frightened by what they are facing, Josephine among them, but these past months Leliana had moved like a ghost through Haven, speaking to no one but her agents. 

And yet tonight it was Leliana who personally escorted her through their escape route under the chantry. It gives Josephine hope that there may still be a chance to salvage things between them. 

“Thank you.”

Cassandra nods and Josephine expects her to get up and leave but Cassandra just sits, staring into the fire. After a few minutes she turns to Josephine. “You must speak to Leliana’s agent in charge of supplies, the one called Charter. You will need better clothing, we may be here for some time.” 

Some time. Until they freeze to death? Or will they hold out for some miracle? 

Josephine watches the flames dance in front of her. When she was a small child, her mother would take her to the market in Antiva City every Saturday. They would weave along the crowded paths between the stalls, stopping to smell local spices or try on jewelry imported from Rivain.

Once they had stopped to speak to a sculptor about having something commissioned for her aunt’s upcoming birthday. While the adults negotiated the price, Josephine had wandered over to a nearby stall full of brightly colored scarves.

She had twirled amongst the fluttering fabric, running her hands along the silks and fine wools. No two pieces were the same: some felt light as air in her hand and seemed to sparkle like the sea when the light caught them; others were heavy and dark as the smooth black stones she shoved into her pockets on a family trip to the mountains the year before.

Josephine had wanted to ask her mother to buy her one, but when she walked out from behind the fabrics she was nowhere to be seen. Afraid that she had been left behind, Josephine had wandered out into the crowd crying until her mother appeared and picked her up, mumbling thanks to the Maker that she’d been found.

For a moment Josephine had been completely alone in the world: small and afraid, unable to find her way home. She sees the same fear now in Cassandra’s face, in the eyes of every person around the fires of the camp. During their escape Josephine heard many whispers that the Maker has abandoned them. But if He has turned his back, who will come and save them now?


	4. Eruditions II

 

*****************************************

Leliana stands on the balcony outside of Skyhold’s rookery. Spring has come slowly to the Frostbacks; the fields of Orlais and Ferelden have been in bloom for weeks but a thick blanket of snow still covers the peaks surrounding Skyhold. Despite the harsh surround terrain, each day more tiny shoots of green fight through the remaining ice in the garden to see the sun for the first time.

The change of seasons provides a welcome rebirth for the Inquisition. After the disaster at Haven it had seemed as though the Maker had turned His back on them, but Leliana sees now that she had been wrong to doubt Him. Each day more of the faithful flock to their doors, pledging their support for the Inquisition and for the Herald. If she and Josephine can continue to shape the Inquisitor’s image and guide him along his path, perhaps there is hope to be had after all.

Shielding her eyes from the rising sun, she scans left to right, searching for signs of movement. Nothing. She sighs, exhaling a cloud of vapor into the cold morning air. As it dissipates she glimpses a tiny black speck moving towards her across the sky. A deep caw rings out from above. Leliana whistles, high pitched and sharp.

The black speck grows larger as the raven begins its dive. The bird beats its wings as it slows down to land, and she extends her left arm to give the bird a place to perch on her thick glove. When he’s settled, she pulls a piece of dried meat from a small cheesecloth in the pouch at her belt and offers it to the bird. He snatches it and gulps it down, cocking his head at her as if demanding more.

He’s not entitled to another treat, but Leliana raised and trained Baron Plucky from when he was a tiny chick and there are few in her ranks, humans included, who are better at their work than he. Charter says he’s spoiled, but surely a few extra morsels of meat are a reasonable reward for so hardworking a member of the Inquisition. 

She looks over his plumage, the grooves of his beak, the hooked claws of his talons sharp as needles. The Baron was badly injured during the escape from Haven and for some time she wasn’t sure he would recover. A weaker thing would have died in its cage. Yet here he is, learning to fly again as any bird must do to survive.   

The Baron is not the only member of the Inquisition focusing on survival. Now that Corypheus has shown himself it is clear that the threat to Thedas is far greater than even Justinia could have imagined. The Inquisition has been entrusted with the holy task of protecting this world from certain destruction, and now they must do whatever is necessary to see it done. Leliana failed Justinia in life; she will not do so now.     


The Baron nestles into her neck, cooing softly. She should get him back to the rookery but she lingers, turning her face back up into the sunlight. As they often do, her thoughts drift to Justina.

When she first joined the Chantry as a lay sister, Leliana had struggled to cope with Marjolaine’s betrayal and her guilt about Sketch’s death. Justinia visited her frequently, sometimes even telling stories of her life before she joined the Chantry. On darker days, when Leliana could do nothing more than weep for what she had lost, Justinia would simply hold her. Before leaving Justinia would always put a warm hand on Leliana’s cheek and tell her to be strong, that the Maker had a plan for her.

In her wildest nightmares she could never have imagined that this would be it.

 

*****************************************

How the Maker loves to test her. If He did not, why would Cassandra be trudging through mud in the rain because the Champion--the very same one Varric swore on his mother’s ancestors was nowhere to be found--wanted to meet in Crestwood? Varric deceived her to protect Hawke, too naive to understand that it is the responsibility of a champion to stand for the people who cannot, no matter the personal cost. 

Hawke lost much in the disaster at Kirkwall, but who amongst the Inquisition had not suffered? Many lost their homes or their loved ones during the war and the explosion at the conclave. Cassandra has lost the entire Seeker order and it is no secret how deeply Leliana feels Justinia’s loss. So many lives could have been saved if the Champion had been found sooner. It is good the Inquisitor has not brought Varric here; even now Cassandra itches to wrap her hands around his neck and choke the life out of him. 

Instead she must settle for more of the undead. She went out from Crestwood village with the Inquisitor, Dorian, and Sera a few hours ago and their progress has been slowed substantially by roaming groups of walking corpses.

The Champion is somewhere in the hills to the north, but the giant rift above the lake is a more immediate priority. The mayor of Crestwood had mentioned to them that there was a way to drain the lake using a dam accessible by a nearby keep, but scouts confirmed that it was in the possession of a mercenary band. It seems that nothing is ever easy these days. 

The weather has been abysmal since they arrived more than a week ago. She had expected some late spring storms in this part of Ferelden, but nothing like this. Soaked to the bone from the driving rain, Cassandra hears the familiar gurgling sound of undead rising.

The Inquisitor gives a shout and the party springs into action. Arrows and spells fly around her as Cassandra slices through the corpses within arms reach. She had expected such grotesqueness when they went to the Fallow Mire, but it had been an unpleasant surprise when Harding’s report arrived ahead of their journey here.

The undead go down easily, no doubt aided to their second deaths by the oil coating her sword. Leliana had come to her before the party had left Skyhold. She presented Cassandra with a vial of the substance, instructing her to put it on her blade before going out into the rain. Cassandra had asked about the contents and Leliana had only given some cryptic response about the ingredients being of far less importance than its effects. 

She and Leliana do not speak of all the harsh words thrown between them in Haven.  Leliana offers poison as a peace offering, Cassandra thanks her for it, and all is right between them. They see one another less often now that Cassandra is exempt from regular war table meetings. With the Inquisition growing larger and more powerful by the day it is easy to become lost in it. Even so, it began with only the two of them and it is a comfort to know Leliana is there. 

The last of the corpses fall back into the muck and Cassandra doesn’t even bother to sheath her weapon as they clamber up a slippery incline towards the Keep, Trevelyan running ahead to scout the premises in stealth.

He loops back to meet them less than fifty paces from the Keep entrance and the group huddles close to hear him over the driving rain. “Doesn’t look like there’s any guards on the battlements. I think we should just knock on the front door, see who’s home.” 

Dorian drums his fingers on his staff. “The sooner we get inside, the better. This rain is making my hair curl.” 

Cassandra huffs. Who tries to take a fortified structure with just four men? But before she can say anything Sera tears a grenade off of her belt and lopes down the hill.

“Got it!”

Cassandra sprints after her. She’s wearing more armor than her other three companions combined; one would think it would make them more conservative in their tactics. Instead, the Inquisitor lets out a whoop and Dorian flings open the grimoire chained to his belt as a cackling Sera lights and tosses the grenade at the keep’s door. 

The door explodes, splinters flying in every direction. Cassandra’s ears are ringing but she charges forward through the smoke and into the courtyard. There are archers on the stable’s thatched roof and re-enforcements descending from the upper level. Her party may be outnumbered, but between Sera and the Inquisitor they have more than enough arrows, explosives, and Maker knows what other deadly accessories tempests use to make it an even fight.

The men on the roof are down before Cassandra has even made it up the steps. The swordsmen are hardly a match for her but the rogue in their midst creates more of a challenge. Cassandra catches a glimpse of him past the swordsman in front of her, moving too quickly to be caught by an arrow. 

“Cassandra! Rogue on your right!” For all of Dorian’s preening, he makes an excellent spotter during a fight. 

She finishes the man in front of her just as the rogue creeps down the stairs towards her.  Cassandra plants her right foot and drops steps with her left, whipping around to backhand him with her shield just as he hits the landing. 

The rogue stumbles and Cassandra drives him up against the stone wall. He struggles against her shield, constantly shifting, trying to slip a dagger underneath her guard. He doesn’t expect her to lower the shield suddenly, and as the rogue comes fully into view Cassandra drives her sword hand down like a hammer into the cloaked head as hard as she can. Bones crunch as her plated fist drives the pommel through the rogue’s face. The body slides to the ground and Cassandra heads up the stairs. 

The fighting is manageable with the archers and swordsmen in the interior, and the party quickly climbs the final staircase to the keep’s main tower. They’re greeted by a hulking man who must be the head of the band of mercenaries. He’s as tall as the Iron Bull and swinging a maul bigger than Varric. She runs forward to engage him before he can take stock of the rest of his less-armored assailants. 

When his maul makes contact she feels the reverberation through her entire body. The blow knocks her shield back against her face, snapping her head back. She stumbles and gasps to catch her breath, blood flying from her mouth onto the wet stones. She turns to face him again, forcing her eyes to focus.

The adrenaline hits soon after and she dances in front of the man, dodging his slower swings, thrusting with her sword when she can find an opening. His heavy armor and weapon tire him quickly; he stumbles when an arrow explodes against his chest plate. The maul slips from his hands just as lightning rains down from Dorian’s staff, sending him into convulsions. Cassandra jumps out of the way as he falls.

 Trevelyan grins. “That went well.”

Cassandra wipes the blood from her nose and says nothing. Trevelyan’s ego has grown even faster than the Inquisition’s popularity. His arrogance makes him reckless, and makes her job of keeping him safe all the more difficult.

Sera points at the empty flagpole above them. “Should probably get an Inquisition flag up there, yeah?” 

Trevelyan follows her eyes. “We’ll have to send back to camp for it.” 

Dorian looks around. “One of Leliana’s people must be nearby. Let’s find them quickly so we can move on to the celebration. I spotted an ample number of ale casks on our way in.” 

“A brilliant plan.” Trevelyan slings an arm around his shoulder and grins before his eyes fall on Cassandra again.

“Are you all right? You took a bit of a beating there before we could bring him down.”

“I’m fine.” It feels like someone is hammering on her skull. 

The Inquisitor and Dorian head towards the stairs as she starts to heft her shield back up, spots dancing in front of her eyes. 

“Uh, Cassandra...” 

Sera drifts into her line of sight as the ground tilts and the shield falls back to the ground. Cassandra is about to follow it when Sera grabs her. “Hold on.” 

She produces a healing potion from a compartment on her belt and hands the bottle to Cassandra, who gulps it down.

“Thank you.” 

Cassandra tries to pick up her shield again but Sera pulls her back upright. The elf quickly removes the quiver from her back and straps it to her hip, then shoves her bow into Cassandra’s hands.

“What are you doing?” She’s never seen Sera hand over her bow willingly; she even sleeps with it in camp.

“Helping.” With some effort, Sera picks up the shield and starts to strap it to her own back. “Shit, this thing’s heavy. Can’t believe you just carry it around all the time like it’s nothing. Well, I can. Seen you training without that armor and…wow.” 

“Sera, give it—” Cassandra reaches out to take it from her but Sera swats her hand away.

“I’ve got it. Let’s find you a healer.”

 

*****************************************

“I take it you’ve all seen my reports from Crestwood. The rift above the lake is dealt with, we’ve got a new keep, and an entire region of Ferelden in our debt. At this rate Queen Anora will be coming to Skyhold in person to negotiate for favorable terms.”

Trevelyan stands at the center of the war room, puffed up like a peacock. He reminds Josephine of her young noble peers who used to play at being bards in Orlais. The Inquisitor’s life is now too important to allow him to risk it trivially, but in another time this man could have easily been another broken doll at the bottom of a staircase.

Out of the corner of her eye, Josephine catches Leliana rolling her eyes beneath the cover of her hood as Cullen holds up his own copy of the report. “There’re still areas of heavy fighting in the Bannorn around Crestwood. Capturing Caer Bronach gives us a place to garrison troops to deal with them.” 

Leliana is quick to interject. “With the area clear of undead, the highway will once again be open to travel between Orlais and Ferelden. If my agents operate out of the keep, we would get valuable information about activities in both countries. Not to mention whatever the Venatori are doing in the hills.” 

Trevelyan turns. “Josephine?”

It has been this way since they arrived at Skyhold: Leliana and Cullen in opposition and the Inquisitor turning to her to provide a compromise.

“I could speak to the surrounding banns about providing a place for our soldiers. In addition to Leliana’s agents, perhaps a small diplomatic attaché should also be in residence at the keep to greet any passing nobles who wish to support our cause.”

Cullen scoffs. “ I doubt Leliana’s people know how to manage a keep. It’s meant for military oversight.” 

Josephine holds her breath. Leliana takes any slight against her agents as a personal offense. Cullen really should know better. 

“My people are _managing_ the machinations of noble houses and courts all over Thedas. A keep is hardly a cause for concern.”

Leliana’s tone is sharp, and Cullen puts both hands on the table as if to steady himself for the next attack. “You still need someone to put in charge.”

“I will dispatch one of my best agents to oversee our operations there. She is more than competent.”   

They continue to glare at one another as the Inquisitor clears his throat. Leliana turns to him and inclines her head. “With the Inquisitor’s approval of course.” 

This is little more than a formality. Trevelyan wants no real part in the decision-making, only for his importance in the discussion to be acknowledged regardless of how much he contributes to it.

“All right. I trust Leliana and Josephine can work out the details of this on their own.” 

“Of course, my lord.” Josephine makes a note on her parchment. She’ll need to speak to the quartermaster about getting heraldry out to the Keep. Nobles need to see Caer Bronach as a beacon of the Inquisition’s authority.

“Good, that’s settled then. If you’ll excuse me, I have another matter to attend to.”

The Inquisitor all but runs from the room, to meet Dorian in the tavern no doubt. At some point Josephine will need to speak to him about his drinking, the habit is becoming excessive based on the reports Leliana gets from the staff.    

Cullen follows with hardly a glance at either of them. Leliana watches him go, a small smile on her face. “I suppose he won’t be coming to tea tomorrow.” 

“Most likely not.” Josephine sighs. There are no limits to Leliana’s petulance when it comes to Cullen. 

She gestures to the door and they move down the corridor and through Josephine’s office to the great hall.

This is usually when they part ways and Leliana disappears back to the cold rookery to do Maker knows what. She has seemed less sullen as the months have gone on, but she still rarely accepts social invitations. “Will you be there?”

Leliana turns to face her, putting a hand on Josephine’s arm. “I know it is important to you, Josie. I will come if I can.” 

Her gaze is soft. For a moment Josephine sees the woman she knew before Leliana went to serve the Divine. 

An agent appears at Leliana’s side and that woman falls away, replaced by the spymaster. It’s unnerving to watch the way Leliana slips from one self to another.  Josephine excuses herself at the first opportunity.

 

*****************************************

“Nightingale.”

Charter meets her on the ramparts near Cullen’s office, carrying a pair of blunt dueling knives. Leliana pulls off her gloves and takes the knives from Charter’s outstretched hand.  “Sorry I’m late, the Inquisitor is not very punctual to council meetings.” 

Charter gives her a wry smile. “At least he attends at all.” 

Leliana snorts. “True.” 

They walk side by side to an empty part of the ramparts. Charter takes five big paces back from Leliana and adjusts her gauntlets. Beyond her Leliana can see a small crowd of agents loitering near the entrance to Cullen’s office. They seem deep in conversation but by the way their eyes keep cutting across the rampart, it’s clear they’re here to watch.

She tests the weight of the knives in her hands as Charter draws one of her own. Charter’s choice of a single blade is a practical one: a hand to strike and a hand to block. Leliana’s methods are less conservative. What she gives up in defense she can make up for in speed. As Marjolaine once said, when in a knife fight you should expect to get cut.   

Charter drops back into her dueling stance and signals that she’s ready to begin.

In Orlais, Leliana learned that a bard’s every movement must be carefully chosen, each blow struck at precisely the right moment. Her first strikes at Charter are not intended to land, but rather to tease. Charter accepts the invitation with her own exploratory jabs. This is little more than a prelude, but Leliana can already feel the anticipation of what’s to come pulsing through her veins. 

With imminent death out of the question, sparring is a practice in physical restraint and self-discipline. There is usually nothing more to be said of it, but a compatible partner can create something far more pleasurable. Sparring with Charter is practically an indulgence. 

Leliana knows the exact moment when Charter will strike high, just as Charter is already blocking when Leliana turns the blow. And so they whirl around one another across the ramparts, their movements as complex as any performance in the ballrooms of Antiva or Orlais. 

To execute a dance well, both partners must understand the other’s expectations. Every step is a negotiation: to lead, your partner must allow themselves to be led at every turn. At the Imperial Court such negotiations were of two layers: the leader and the led, the player and the played. The steps may be clear but the performers’ true desires rarely were. To fall into the rhythm or simply delight in the movement alone, as she does now, could be fatal. 

Yet Skyhold’s stones are far from the marble of the palaces she once frequented. Charter is as sure footed a partner as any, but even with blunt blades Leliana could easily kill her if she wanted to. Charter knows this just as Leliana knows that while Charter cannot match her in a duel, she could draw blood in other ways. 

Scourging is a practice Leliana engages in rarely, and her carelessness at Haven left her exposed to Charter in a moment of profound weakness. Charter is well respected enough that if she had recounted what transpired many agents would have believed her and the rumors would have no doubt made it to the Inquisitor himself.

Such a revelation would have left her position within the Inquisition deeply compromised. But Charter said nothing, not even to Leliana herself. How rare to be spared judgement for her mistakes. She has many enemies, but Charter is not one.

Sweat drips down Leliana’s back as they continue to circle one another in the afternoon sun. She knows Charter is doing exactly as she is: watching for signs of fatigue, anything to open up a space to strike. Leliana’s limbs are burning but she keeps her movements tight and disciplined. 

Her next attempt is sidestepped and Charter’s off hand clamps around her wrist.  Charter’s grip doesn’t allow Leliana the space to use her height or longer reach to an advantage, instead capturing her in a battle of physical strength and balance in which her dual blades are now a hindrance.

It’s all Leliana can do to latch Charter’s dagger into one of her own to prevent herself from losing the bout. Locked in a tangle of limbs and sharp objects, they’ve reached a stalemate.

Charter smiles. “A draw?”

Leliana grins and they both relax. Much of their work during the previous year has kept them apart, but since the move to Skyhold she has come to rely on Charter more than anyone else in the Inquisition. Skyhold’s residents don’t know it, but Charter has done more for the Inquisition than even those within the Inquisitor’s inner circle. With command of Caer Bronach, her contributions can finally be recognized.

The idea makes Leliana’s heart swell with pride, but there is something sore underneath. It has been good to have Josephine here, but there are many things Leliana has done that she could never understand. Even Cassandra was kept in the dark about much of her work for the Divine. Few could comprehend the commitment and personal sacrifice it required, or how much farther she must be prepared to go for the Inquisition. Now she sends the only person who understands to the other side of Ferelden.

 

*****************************************

When Josephine finally emerges from her meeting with the Quartermaster the training yard is mostly empty. As she makes her way back towards Skyhold’s main entrance she passes Cassandra sitting on a stump, cleaning the cuirass propped on the ground between her knees. As Josephine gets closer she can hear Cassandra humming under her breath. She listens for a moment, the song is familiar. 

“Is that Pavarini’s aria?”

Cassandra starts, nearly dropping the cuirass. “Ambassador Montilyet, I did not see you there.”

“I apologize, I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

To open a conversation with such an outburst demonstrates an embarrassing lack of manners on her part. Josephine has a mind to excuse herself all together, but Cassandra sets the cuirass onto the ground beside her feet, wipes her palms on her trousers and stands. 

“No need. I’m surprised you could pick out the melody; I am no great musical talent.”

Her expression is serious but her eyes dance. Who would have known Cassandra had such a sense of humor? 

Josephine takes a step closer. “I saw a performance two years ago in Antiva City. The mezzo soprano was sublime.”

Cassandra smiles and crosses her arms. “She brought the audience at the Grande Royeaux to tears.” 

Without armor the muscles covering Cassandra’s shoulders and biceps are clearly defined. Josephine drags her eyes back to Cassandra’s face.

“I didn’t know the Seekers took such an interest in the Opera.” It’s not unusual for nobles to attend to the arts, but Cassandra has made it clear that she has no desire to associate with her familial upbringing. 

“They do not. I was fortunate that Divine Beatrix thought to introduce me to it and I was able to attend on occasion with Justinia as well.” 

Josephine’s impression of Cassandra has been colored by both the stories of her heroic exploits and the grave seriousness with which she approaches her work. She took the Seeker to be a woman of business and little else. Perhaps she should reconsider. 

“I’ve seen many performances at the Grande. It’s unfortunate we were not introduced at one of the soirées that were thrown afterwards.” She would certainly have remembered Cassandra in formal wear.

Cassandra waves her hand dismissively. “The court doesn’t interest me.”

“I see.” It is no wonder they have spoken so infrequently since coming to Skyhold. Cassandra had seemed interested to Josephine’s work during war table meetings in Haven, but perhaps that had just been professional courtesy.

“Well, good day to you--”

Cassandra puts a hand out to stop her. Cassandra is close enough now that Josephine can see the shadow of a purple-green bruise along her jaw. Her eyes follow it towards her chin, where it intersects with the deep scar that runs down Cassandra’s cheek in a sloping line. On another face the scar might have been disfiguring, but it only accentuates the sharp elegance of Cassandra’s features. Josephine has a sudden urge to reach out and run a finger over it.   

“I don’t mean that _you_ are not interesting. I-Forgive me.”

The words break both the line of Cassandra’s scar and Josephine’s fixation on it. Josephine looks away and quickly steps back; to even think of touching Cassandra that way is incredible inappropriate. 

“Of course.” 

She chances another glance at Cassandra’s face. The Seeker is smiling now and Josephine can feel the warmth of a blush creeping up her chest and neck as she returns it.

This is absurd. Josephine is the ambassador of the Inquisition, surely she has the social wherewithal to maintain a professional relationship with a colleague. Perhaps if she were to see Cassandra more in that capacity, she could go about it more easily.

“Would you like to come for tea one day? If you have the time.” 

Cassandra chuckles. “Yes. But if you are hoping for another concert I’m afraid you will be disappointed.” 

“Well, I will be sure to prepare other entertainment then.”

The double entendre is out of her mouth as quickly as it crosses her mind. Josephine sends up a quick prayer to the Maker to take her to His side and spare her further embarrassment, but her plea falls on deaf ears and Cassandra just raises an eyebrow. Josephine gathers what shreds of dignity she has left and drops into a shallow curtsy.

“Well, it’s been a pleasure, Lady Cassandra.” 

Cassandra bows slightly, a smile still playing at her lips. “Ambassador.”

Josephine takes her leave and forces herself not to look back. There is little chance Cassandra could miss the blush on her face now.

*****************************************

Charter slips her knife back into her belt. After five rounds of sparring with Leliana, she thinks her arms may fall off. At least she can give as well as she gets: Leliana stands with her hands on her hips, face flushed from the exertion.

They’ve been following this routine for months. The early sessions were difficult; Charter had been plagued by nightmares about what happened at Haven and she saw tears on Leliana’s face more than once when their blades met. But those occasions are now few and far between; today’s session has left Charter feeling rejuvenated despite the physical fatigue. She doesn't miss the easy smile on Leliana’s face either. 

Such emotional displays are rare with the Spymaster these days. Leliana would say she has little time for it and Charter would be pressed to argue the point: between her work as Spymaster and the duties of seneschal, it’s a miraculous feat that Leliana even sleeps. It’s likely never occurred to the Inquisitor to think of who airs out his bedding or keeps the fires lit in the Great Hall, but Leliana somehow manages to stay apprised of the working habits of everyone from the most junior cleaning servants to the groundskeepers.

Nevertheless, many in the Inquisition fear Leliana, or at least the idea of her. This public training display has surely drawn the eye of every agent posted around the ramparts; there are many amongst the Inquisition’s spies who admire her skills, but none are so bold as to ask for a demonstration. 

Leliana pulls the padded gloves she wears with the ravens off her belt and slips them on.  

“The Inquisitor has given me permission to utilize Caer Bronach as a base of operations for our agents in Crestwood. I want you to take command of the fortress.”

“I would be honored.” The gravity of Leliana’s choice is not lost on Charter. Caer Bronach is the Inquisition’s first official hold and Leliana wants it to be overseen by an elf. 

Leliana nods. “Good. You’ll need to depart as soon as possible. We have agents manning the Keep in the interim but they’ll need oversight.”

“Of course,” Charter says. Leliana manages hundreds of agents, keeping meticulous records of their given names, aliases, and next-of-kin to contact if the worst comes to pass. To allocate some of these to her is a show of trust not to be taken lightly.

“Before you go…” Leliana bends down to pull something from her left boot. When she stands she extends a small dagger to Charter, hilt first. “I want you to have this.” 

Charter takes it by the grip; the silverite is still warm from where it rested against Leliana’s skin. The dagger’s guard is engraved with vines and Andraste’s Grace. It’s the same weapon Leliana had drawn against the noble who insulted Charter outside the tavern in Val Royeaux.

Leliana’s eyes flick to the ground and then back to her face.  “I know you’re more than capable of taking care of yourself but for my peace of mind, please keep it close.” 

“I will.” Charter is conscious of Leliana’s gaze as she slips the dagger into the empty sheath on the front of her armor. Through the leather she can feel the flat of the blade lying against her chest, just over her heart. 

Leliana’s eyes linger on the dagger’s location. “Send word when you arrive in Crestwood.”

Before Charter can respond Leliana pulls her hood up around her face and walks away.

*****************************************

 


	5. Trials I

 

It is mid-afternoon when Josephine meets Cassandra in Skyhold’s garden. The space is meant to be a place of tranquility, but with summer’s blooms have come the bees. The constant buzzing is an annoyance bordering on a distraction, but with Josephine walking beside her, it is impossible for Cassandra to place her attention elsewhere.

Cassandra is not often at Skyhold, but Josephine has made a point of inviting her for a cup of tea or a hand of cards whenever the Seeker is at the fortress. Cassandra has come to look forward to their time together enough to feel disappointment when her work with the Inquisitor or Josephine’s duties prevent it. They do not meet so frequently that Cassandra would call these meetings routine, but if they were to become so Cassandra would not object.    

Josephine tends to ramble about her work, and today is no different. The Inquisition is to attend a party at the Winter Palace in less than a month and Josephine has been consumed by planning every detail for their delegation. Cassandra half listens, content with the fact that Josephine’s spirited ranting provides a rare opportunity for Cassandra to just look at her. Josephine seems unaware of her own beauty, and this way Cassandra doesn’t have to worry about being caught leering. 

“We need to make a good impression at Halamshiral and Grand Cleric Iona calling us heretics does not help our cause. If she were to be elected Divine it would be a disaster for us and for the Herald.” 

The mention of Iona immediately sours Cassandra’s mood, drawing her out of her thoughts and back to Josephine’s words. 

“Iona would let Corypheus destroy the world if it meant she could be Divine when it all ended.” 

Josephine raises an eyebrow at the bitterness of her response. “You have had dealings with her then?” 

“When it became evident that Divine Beatrix intended to name Justinia her successor, Iona was one of the clerics opposed the choice. Iona’s ambition to sit on the Sunburst Throne herself was obvious from the start, but to see her hover over a dying woman in the hopes of coaxing Beatrix into a change of heart...I was disgusted.”

Beatrix had been the most consistent presence in Cassandra’s life for nearly twenty years. Her parents had not lived long enough to grow old, and as Beatrix declined Cassandra attended to the Divine as she imagined she might have done for her own mother if given the chance. To see vultures like Iona circling as though she were little more than a prized carcass while she yet drew breath had bred a deep loathing in Cassandra that the years had not abated. 

Josephine sighs. “I can only imagine. Revered Mother Anastacia has agreed to meet with me in Val Royeaux about the matter. With any luck, she will help us to end Iona’s bid from inside the Consensus.” 

Another Nevarran.  Cassandra hopes this is not Josephine’s way of asking her to participate in negotiations. 

“Anastacia is a reasonable woman, but you should be direct with her about what you want. Between the nobility and the Mortalitasi, honest dealings are rare in Nevarra. She will appreciate the gesture.” 

“The same could be said of Orlais. Granted, there are less necromancers.” 

“A small victory. The Imperial Court has enough absurdities without involving the death mages.”

Josephine smirks, giving her a sideways look. “You know, some might consider you Orlesian for all the years you’ve spent there. You are their Hero, after all.” 

These games of wit are maddening. Cassandra does not find it difficult to keep up with Josephine, but it feels as though something builds between them with every pass then in the end somehow comes to nothing. The longer it goes on the more Cassandra aches for rougher play with far less talking. 

“Ugh. Enough of this; I’m going back to the training.”

Cassandra turns away to go for the door. She expects Josephine to call after her. She does not expect Josephine to gently grab her hand as she passes. 

Josephine has touched her only once before. She and Cullen had been late to one of Mother Giselle’s sermons and Cassandra had made room for them on the bench where she was sitting. There was not quite enough space, and when Josephine shifted her hand brushed against Cassandra’s.  Cassandra would have thought it an accident, but Josephine’s hand rested against hers for the rest of the sermon. Mother Giselle could have prophesied Andraste’s return and it would have not convinced Cassandra to move. 

Now, Cassandra reminds herself to breathe as she turns around. “Yes?” 

Josephine quickly releases her hand, taking a step back.

For a moment Cassandra thinks she will apologize, but instead Josephine squares her shoulders and fixes Cassandra with playful stare that makes her mouth go dry.

“Perhaps when I return from Val Royeaux we can continue this debate over petit-fours, unless your opposition to all things Orlesian prevents you from accepting the invitation of confectionary.” 

Cassandra would eat the dirt in the garden if it meant Josephine would look at her like that more often. “I suppose I can make an exception.” 

A runner jogs across the garden. “Ambassador Montilyet, Commander Cullen is in waiting in your office. He said he’s to meet you and Sister Nightingale for tea.” 

“Finally!” Josephine claps her hands together. “I knew he’d come around eventually.” 

She flashes a grin at Cassandra. “We will see one another soon then?”

“Yes.” 

Josephine takes her leave and Cassandra stalks off to the training yard. After her last encounter with Josephine, Cassandra destroyed two training dummies before the tension in her limbs released. She grips her sword and releases a shaky breath before unleashing her first strike. Straw and wood splinters fly when the blade collides with the dummy. At this rate, she’ll have to speak to the quartermaster about compensating the Inquisition for the damage.

*****************************************

 

The Grand Cathedral is a center of activity in Val Royeaux no matter the time of year, but Josephine still does not expect to find a line of people stretching from the entrance all the way around the walls of the grounds. Approaching the gates out of turn is frowned upon, but she is already nearly late for her appointment with Revered Mother Anastacia and it would not do to keep her waiting when asking for a favor.

Josephine pushes her way to the front where a Knight Divine is manning the gate. 

“Excuse me, ser. I am Ambassador Josephine Montilyet of the Inquisition. I have business in the Grand Cathedral, may I pass?”

The Knight Divine looks her over then looks back to the line. “Everyone here has business. No one may enter the premises unescorted while the clerics are in the Grand Consensus. You will have to go to the back of the line and wait like everyone else.” 

“I can escort her.”

Cassandra appears beside her as if out of nowhere. The Knight Divine immediately turns and smartly salutes her. “Seeker Cassandra. I was not aware that you were in Val Royeaux.” 

“I’ve just arrived. Our business is urgent; may I take the Ambassador through?”

The Knight Divine looks hard at Josephine for a moment before nodding. 

“A good day to you both. Next!” 

They pass through the gates and Josephine stops. “Thank you for your help Cassandra, but where did you come from?” 

Cassandra points through the crowd and Josephine sees the Inquisitor waving from near one of the market stalls at the edge of the Summer Bazaar. Sera and Dorian are in conversation nearby. “We have been in the Exalted Plains and Trevelyan asked us to detour here before going back to Skyhold. He said he was to assist you with some personal business in the city.”

Josephine’s cheeks burn. She had hoped Trevelyan would come alone; asking his help to resolve the issue of her family’s trading status was humbling enough without bringing others into it. “Yes, that is true. Hopefully this will not take long.”

“Don’t be so sure. If you are the only reprieve Anastacia gets from the clerics today, the meeting could stretch on for a while.”

Cassandra smiles at her and Josephine cannot help but return it. Cassandra has a gift for providing levity in unexpected moments. It is a most attractive quality.   

Ahead of them Josephine can see the familiar grand square and towering central podium at which the Divine gives her addresses to the public. The Cathedral is on the opposite end of the square. As she and Cassandra make their way toward it, the stone arches separating the Cathedral grounds from the rest of Val Royeaux curl around as though pulling its occupants into an embrace.

When they reach the door leading into the Cathedral’s administrative wing, Cassandra opens it, gesturing for Josephine to enter first.

“Anastacia’s office is this way.” 

This part of the Grand Cathedral is not open to the public. The piped masonry of the ceiling is gilded in gold to create contrast with the pristine white marble of the walls and floors. Josephine cannot be precisely sure, but the intricately stained glass windows look to be the style of the old master glassworkers of Dairsmuid. Such a commission would have cost more than a small chalet. 

Cassandra looks perfectly at ease leading her through the halls, and to Josephine eye she is as fine a work as any of the priceless sculptures lining the hallway. Josephine reaches out a hand and lets her fingertips brush against the carved stone of one of the busts. The marble is cold, unyielding against her touch; would Cassandra be the same? 

The Seeker’s skin had been warm under Josephine’s hand that day in the garden. Later, when she was alone in her quarters, Josephine had relived that moment and imagined touching Cassandra elsewhere. Thankfully, Cassandra had left with the Inquisitor early the next morning. Josephine surely could not have looked her in the face after such an evening of self-indulgence.

A group of women in Chantry robes pass them and Josephine forces the memory away; this is not the time or the place for such thoughts. She follows Cassandra onto another hall. Here there are no windows to bathe the corridors in light. Great tapestries depicting the trials of Andraste hang from the walls in their place. Some of the fabrics are spun with gold, making them glitter in the torchlight.

“I was not aware of all the tapestries within this part of the Chantry. The quality of the weaving is astounding.”

Cassandra smiles at her and Josephine’s stomach flips. “Yes. It’s been so many years I hardly notice them now. Beatrix was a great collector; I could show you more if there’s time when you’re finished with the Revered Mother.” 

They come to a stop outside an office and Cassandra gestures to the door. “I’ll be out here if you have need of me.” 

It doesn’t surprise Josephine that Cassandra has not offered to join the meeting. In fact, she is grateful for it. The Seeker is well respected and as a Nevarran could be an asset to negotiations with Anastacia, but at this point Cassandra would be more of a distraction to her than anything else.

Josephine knocks on the door as Cassandra retreats down the hall to examine one of the tapestries more closely. A few moments later, it’s opened by a woman in chantry robes. She looks to be about the age of Josephine’s mother, but lacks her warmth of expression. “Ah, Ambassador Montilyet, come in.” 

“Revered Mother Anastacia. Thank you for meeting with me. I know it is a busy time.”

Anastacia motions for Josephine to take a seat at one of the chairs in front of the desk. Josephine makes herself comfortable for the inevitable exchange of pleasantries that must take place before any real work is done.

Anastacia sits beside her. “The work of the Inquisition is of as much importance to us here as it is to the rest of Thedas.” 

Josephine inclines her head in deference. “The task before us is a difficult one and without a Divine to guide us. It is all we can do to ask the Maker for His help.”

Anastacia sits back with a sigh. “All of Thedas mourns the Divine’s loss. It is still hard to believe Justinia is gone; to have to select her successor so soon after her own ascension is proving difficult.” 

“I do not envy you the task. We have heard rumor that Grand Cleric Iona has emerged as a frontrunner in the race.” 

There was little reconnaissance of note on Anastacia, but Leliana had assured Josephine that she held no allegiance to Iona based their shared nationality. If she was wrong this will be a short meeting indeed. Josephine watches Anastacia carefully as the woman responds. 

“She has some support, yes.”

Her tone is neutral and she shows no sign of discomfort at the subject. Josephine must tread carefully to assess Anastacia’s true opinion. “I can see how her positions may appeal to some. These are tumultuous days.” 

Anastacia shrugs. “True, but still, there are many who would prefer not to see her succeed.” 

Josephine considers. She could press Anastacia further about Iona, or move the conversation back around to the Consensus in general and hope to draw her out that way. Either way she must decide quickly. 

She glances at Anastacia, who looks at her expectantly. Cassandra had said the Revered Mother preferred honest dealings. From a negotiating standpoint, to show all her cards is an incredible gamble, but Leliana would not have suggested Anastacia if she hadn’t believed her willing to cooperate. 

“The Inquisition would like for that opposition to become more public. Your nephew, Ladius, has put his name forward to join the King’s Council in Nevarra. The Inquisition has a warm relationship with King Markus; in exchange for your help perhaps we could lend our support to his bid.”   

Anastacia scoffs and Josephine notices one of her hands close into a fist atop the arm of her chair. “The old King is stuck in his ways; He needs people like Ladius, not the Mortalitasi to guide him towards reform. A leader must reflect the times in which they are living.” 

Indeed, and Iona is not such a one. Anastacia must know it, and if the vehemence of her words about Markus is any indication, she likely feels as strongly about the matter as Josephine does. To express this commonality correctly is the most critical moment of a negotiation. 

“The Inquisition would agree wholeheartedly.” 

The offer is now on the table, so it is up to Anastacia to decide if she will take it. The Revered Mother looks at her, then leans back as if to consider. Josephine counts six heartbeats before The Revered Mother stands. 

“I accept your proposal, Ambassador. The council meets again this afternoon. I will send word of what progress is made here. It will not take much to topple Iona from her perch.” 

Josephine detects a hint of malice in her words. So, there is bad blood between Anastacia and Iona then. Those inside the Chantry play the Game as well as most courtiers, and with longer memories. Cassandra has clearly not forgiven Iona for her actions with Beatrix nearly a decade ago. The slight committed against Anastacia is likely more recent if she has cause to play against Iona in such a pivotal moment.

“Thank you, Revered Mother. I will write to my contacts in Nevarra City.” 

Josephine rises and Anastacia leads her to the door. She opens it for Josephine, and they both step out into the hall. Cassandra walks over from a nearby bench and Anastacia smiles for the first time since Josephine’s arrival. 

They greet one another in Nevarran and Josephine waits politely as they exchange pleasantries. She comprehends the language well enough, but has far from mastered it in speech. Whereas the melodies of the Antivan and Orlesian languages come naturally, Josephine has often found her tongue tripping over the consonants punctuating the Nevarran cadence.  

Cassandra’s pitch is slightly higher in her native tongue. Josephine wonders if her own voice sounds different in Orlesian or the common tongue than in Antivan. Despite Josephine’s fluency in others, ideas still form in the language of her youth and are then deconstructed and reconstructed into their new languages before they ever make it onto paper or into another’s ear. No house that is torn down can be put back together precisely the same way, and so it is with language. The scaffolding is there but the true meaning is easily lost. Josephine prides herself in the command of multiple languages, but it is only in Antivan that her thoughts and feelings merge smoothly. Perhaps it is similar for Cassandra. 

Revered Mother Anastacia returns to her office, leaving Cassandra and Josephine to wander back the way they came. 

“Have you worked with many Nevarrans in the Grand Cathedral?” 

Cassandra shrugs. “Not more than any other nation. There are few of us amongst the Inquisition; that was the first I’ve spoken Nevarran in some time. I’m better in Orlesian now; Justinia preferred it to the common tongue.” 

Justinia was Orlesian by birth as Beatrix was before her, but with Leliana there as well it is logical that Orlesian was the working language in the Grand Cathedral for some time. Josephine wonders if Cassandra misses speaking in her first language. 

“Perhaps the next Divine will as well. Anastacia was more than willing to assist us.” 

Cassandra gives an approving smile. “Good. The Inquisitor will be pleased. Should we return to him or shall I continue our tour?” 

In any other circumstance Josephine would accept the invitation, but now that Iona is dealt with, the anxiety over her family’s financial situation is building within her.

“I’m afraid we must leave. The business I’ve asked the Inquisitor’s assistance with is urgent as well.” 

“Another time then. This way, it’s faster.” 

Cassandra leads her down a smaller hallway and Josephine follows without a word, grateful that Cassandra hasn’t asked her to elaborate. 

When they emerge from the Cathedral grounds, Sera is loitering on the street corner. There are few free elves walking the streets of this part of the city, but Sera seems unconcerned by the glares of passing citizens. She sidles up to them, bowing dramatically to Josephine. 

“Lady Ambassador.” 

“Sera.” The elf grins at her as she straightens, then winks at Cassandra, who rolls her eyes. 

It’s hard for Josephine to tell if Sera likes her or is just enjoys teasing her. Leliana seems fond of the elf and Cassandra speaks of her with affectionate exasperation, but Sera’s pranks and childish displays are a thorn in Josephine’s side at Skyhold.

Sera jerks her thumb towards the other side of the bazaar. “Inky’s over that way. Dorian wanted to look for something to wear to Halamshiral.”

“Why? I’ve already ordered the livery.” Josephine has had her hands full with his textile demands since Dorian came to Skyhold, but she had explicitly told him that the Inquisition’s delegation would go in uniform. 

Sera shrugs. “Said he wanted something with feathers. Come on!” 

Josephine opens her mouth to tell Sera they don’t have time for this, but the elf has already bounded back off into the crowd. 

Josephine sighs. “Is it always like this?” 

“Worse, actually.” Cassandra’s gives her a helpless smile. “Come, the sooner we get the Inquisitor’s coin purse away from Dorian the sooner we can leave.” 

*****************************************

 

Charter stands at a worktable on Caer Bronach’s lower bailey, sifting through the week’s requisition lists. It’s a dull task. When she took this position she had expected to be handling agents and important Inquisition activities. Instead, she’s pouring over lists of the exact number of plates and cups being kept in the cellar. Somewhere, Leliana is probably laughing.

“Agent Charter! Over here!” 

An elven woman waves enthusiastically as she crests the stairs leading up from the lower level of the keep. Charter walks over to her, weaving through the soldiers and agents moving food and supplies following her careful inventory. Since she’s taken command, Caer Bronach has become a hub of activity with agents and merchants passing through regularly—all of them expecting a meal, a bed, and a chance to trade. 

“What is it, Brewer?” 

The elf snaps to attention before her: back straight, hands clasped behind her like a guard at her post. The Inquisitor recruited Jana from Crestwood village around the time the Keep was acquired, and she’s been in Charter’s tutelage under the codename Brewer ever since.  What she lacks in experience she more than makes up for in enthusiasm. 

“I was down in the village and found us a smith.” Brewer turns to the well-muscled man trailing behind her. “Agent Charter is the commanding officer of this Keep.” 

Brewer was smart to bring him in. The Inquisition is in constant need of equipment and weapon repairs, not to mention new pieces to outfit incoming recruits. The man steps forward and nods to Charter politely. “William Bradley.” 

“Where are you from, William?” 

“Highever originally, but I’ve moved around since the blight. I heard the Inquisition was taking people and I was in the area, so here I am.” He fishes in the pockets of his coat. “Oh, I’ve got a reference.” 

He produces a slightly crumpled parchment sealed with wax. Charter opens it and reads the block script carefully. 

 

 _To whom it may concern,_  

 _My name is Herren and I am the sales manager of Wade’s Emporium in Denerim. I first met William Bradley when Master Wade and I were residing at Vigil’s Keep in Amaranthine. That is not to say he was an apprentice in any official capacity (Master Wade prefers to work alone), but William helped with minor armor repairs and was as hardworking as any I met there._  

 _I cannot speak to his skill at the forge except to say that when Master Wade happened upon William’s armor creations recently in Denerim, he declared them “not entirely heinous.” I would take it as a glowing endorsement._  

_Sincerely,_

_Herren_

 

Charter has never met him, but she knows that Wade is a living legend amongst the smiths in Ferelden for both his armor and his eccentricities. If William’s work was good enough that he was able to get any sort of compliment out of the man, however roundabout, then it’s good enough for the Inquisition. 

Charter folds the letter up and hands it back. “Welcome to the Inquisition, William.”

William smiles. “Thank you, ser. If there’s somewhere I can put my things, I’d like to get a look at what I’ve got to work with.” 

Charter turns to Brewer. “Show him the smithy then take him to the western barracks; there should be plenty of room there.”

Brewer puts a fist to her chest in acknowledgment of the command and leads William away. The eastern barracks have vacancies too, but Charter decided early on to segregate the agents from the other staff and soldiers in the keep. People like William may mean well, but she’d rather not have to deal with them seeing or getting into something they shouldn’t.   

Charter crosses the bailey to get back to her worktable when she’s intercepted by Butcher, who presses a small roll of parchment into her hand. “Message from Nightingale, ser.” 

She unfurls it in stride, skimming over the message, Butcher close behind to receive her response. She stops walking after the first sentence. The message says the House of Repose is moving to execute a contract on Josephine. Leliana wants her to dispatch Butcher and Sparrow to infiltrate the organization and find a way to destroy the contract.

The risk of such an operation will be incredibly high. Few who cross paths with the House of Repose live to tell about it, and as far as Charter knows, no one has ever even attempted to lay hands on one of their contracts. Only the most elite operatives would stand a chance at success. Butcher and Sparrow certainly fit the bill, but neither of them are better suited to such a delicate operation than she is.

Frowning, Charter reads the message again. She built her reputation on infiltrating and manipulating relations royal houses throughout the Free Marches. As Mollnir she exposed a conspiracy against the crown in Hircenia, and then as Black Hart she orchestrated the defeat of the city of Salle by the mercenaries of neighboring Bastion. Leliana would know these stories and more besides. To be overlooked so flagrantly stings. Charter fights the urge to rip up the message in front of Butcher. 

He clears his throat. “Are you going to respond now or should I come back?” 

“No.” Charter slowly folds up the message and turns to Butcher, her mind made up. “I have to leave the keep for a few days on a job. I need you keep things running here until I get back.” 

He’s popular with the other agents and has been around long enough to know all the protocols for managing communications between the keep and Skyhold. With him in charge, the Inquisition’s broader operations won’t suffer in her absence. 

Butcher nods. “I can do that. Do you need anything before you go? Our carta contacts just dropped off a shipment of knockout powder so potent it’ll put a man down for half a night.” 

“That might be useful actually. Have you seen Sparrow around?”

Butcher points to the watchtower. “Observatory.” 

“Thanks.”

Charter and heads briskly into the Keep’s interior, bounding up the stairs to the top office. She opens the door to Sparrow and a handful of other agents sitting around the table in the center of the room, dice and money strewn about the table. Sparrow waves. 

“Charter! Want in on the next one?” 

“A word, Sparrow.” 

He drops the dice and springs to his feet. He moves like a dancer, or someone to whom the normal rules of gravity don’t apply. 

Charter leads him a few paces away from the others. “Leliana needs our help with a personal matter.”  

“What is it? Nightingale knows I’m her man.” 

Charter wonders if Leliana is aware of the devotion of some of her agents. Sparrow is as skilled as any bard in Orlais and could be playing to great acclaim for any of the major actors in the current civil war between Gaspard and Celene. Instead he works in the shadows for Leliana, a woman he speaks of as a living legend.

“We have to steal and destroy a contract from the House of Repose.” 

The color drains from his face. “Is…that even possible?” 

“It’ll have to be. It’s for the life of Ambassador Montilyet.” 

He rubs his hands over his face. This is the first time Charter has ever seen him look nervous. “And she mentioned me by name?”

“Yes.” 

Charter watches as Sparrow takes a breath and runs a hand through his hair, then smooths the front of his armor. He composes himself remarkably well for someone who moments ago seemed likely to vomit right there on his boots. 

Sparrow looks back at the other agents. “Is it just us?”

“Yes. We leave tonight. They’ve given Josephine fair warning. The next encounter will be business.”

He nods and takes a few more breaths. When Sparrow finally meets Charter’s eyes she finds no trace of fear. Leliana would be pleased. 

He salutes with a quick fist to his chest. “I’ll go pack my things.”

*****************************************

 

The rookery is silent except for the sounds of the ravens preening. The metal chains of their cages creaking as they sway, and from her spot on the bench Leliana watches their shadows move back and forth over the floor. Josephine sits at the desk nearby, her cup of tea untouched as she stares off into space. 

Leliana and Josephine have never wanted for conversation, but Josephine has hardly looked at her since the Inquisitor informed her that he’d authorized Leliana to send assassins to deal with the contract on her life. Leliana expected she would be angry, but the days of silence have been difficult to bear. Even now, in the final hours of the operation, Josephine doesn’t look at her as she speaks. 

“Do you think they will succeed?” 

“Yes, the contract will be dealt with tonight.” 

Josephine nods. It is less of an answer than Josephine is looking for. She wants to know if the agents undertaking the mission will live, and that Leliana cannot say. She has not even been able to speak of them by name. 

When she received word that Charter had gone in Butcher’s place she had wanted to tear the entire rookery apart in rage. The agent who delivered the message had been smart enough to leave quickly, and Leliana had sent the rest of them away. The only one who has dared crossed her path since is Rector. He is downstairs now, awaiting the runner from Val Royeaux. 

Leliana requested Butcher and Sparrow with the knowledge that they might not survive. She would gladly gamble their lives, and the lives of most people she knew, against Josephine’s. Charter’s life is another matter.

The mission will be considered a success for the Inquisition if the contract is destroyed, even if it costs the lives of those who did it. Charter will see it the same way. The thought of losing her, or Josephine, or both, steals the air from Leliana’s lungs. 

Leliana takes a deep breath. The movement brings dull pain as her armor presses against her back. She has used the whip infrequently since leaving Haven, but in the past few days it has been the only thing that has calmed her while praying to the Maker for the mission’s success and Charter’s survival. 

Josephine rearranges herself in the chair. “I wish you hadn’t done this.”

“There was no other option.” 

Josephine huffs. “There was. I thought you would at least consider it, if not for my sake then for your agents.” 

“You think this was an easy choice?”

“I’ve seen you deliberate longer over a wine list, Leliana.” 

The accusation cuts deeply. Leliana bites the inside of her cheek as she gets up and walks over to the desk. “Would you have hesitated if you were in my place and it were Yvette’s life in question?”

Josephine finally looks at her.  “No.” 

Leliana throws up her hands. “Then why are you surprised? You are my dearest friend, Josie! I would have gone myself if I could have.” 

Josephine stands so quickly Leliana jumps back. “No! Do you want death so badly, Leliana? All these months I’ve watched how you suffer in this darkness of your own making. You have to stop this!” 

Does she? There had been a time when death had been appealing, but now it is less so. Leliana can’t just abandon her work because the decisions are difficult. 

From below, there are heavy footsteps on the stairs. She and Josephine both turn to the sound. Rector jogs the last few steps up to the landing, saluting as he comes to a stop. 

“Nightingale, there’s a rider coming in. Guards say it’s one of ours.” 

Leliana feels sick with nerves as she and Josephine descend the stairs. Cassandra jumps up from a table in the library and quickly falls into step behind Josephine. Leliana has not missed the hungry looks that have passed between the two of them lately, but she has been content to leave it alone if it means another blade between Josephine and an assassin. 

Leliana rushes ahead down the steps into the courtyard just as the rider dismounts, handing the reins to a stable hand who leads the horse away. The rider walks to meet them, removing their hood in stride. 

It’s Charter. 

The wave of relief stops Leliana mid-stride and Josephine brushes past her. Charter bows to Josephine.

“The contract has been destroyed, the House of Repose shouldn’t trouble you anymore.” 

Josephine sighs heavily. “So it’s done then. How many were lost?” 

“None. We were undetected.” 

It is an impressive feat even for Charter. If they were undetected it means Charter is likely not hiding some grievous wound beneath her cloak either. Josephine deflates with a relieved sigh and Leliana wills herself not to do the same. 

“You have my sincerest gratitude. If you would excuse me, I must write to my family in Antiva.”

Charter bows again and Josephine turns back to Skyhold’s interior with Cassandra close behind. When they pass Leliana, Josephine gives her a small smile and Leliana feels lighter than she has in weeks. 

Within moments it’s just she and Charter standing alone in the courtyard. 

“You shouldn’t have gone.” 

The words come out as barely more than a whisper. Charter matches the tone. 

“Yes, I should have.” 

It’s true but it isn’t the point. 

“I didn’t want you to.” _I was afraid._  

Charter’s eyes are bright against the dark shadows of Skyhold’s walls. It’s been too long since Leliana last saw her in the light. 

“I know.” 

Of course she does. Charter also knows that what she did was an act of insubordination, and Leliana certainly has the authority to reprimand her. In her anger, Leliana had prepared speeches on the topic, but now the words die in her throat. To speak them would be an even greater insult that the decision not to consult Charter in the first place. 

Charter shifts on her feet, mud caked to her boots. The elf must have ridden hard for hours to bring the news in person.

“I’ll return to Caer Bronach in the morning. Sparrow will stay in Val Royeaux to watch Celene and your mage.” 

Morrigan appeared at Court around the same time Justinia took the Sunburst Throne. She and Leliana have not crossed paths since, but perhaps that will finally change in Halamshiral. 

Charter yawns discretely. When the elf lived at Skyhold she was assigned a room befitting her station as a senior member of the Inquisition, but tonight she’ll have to bunk amongst the common soldiers in whatever empty bed can be found in the barracks. Leliana would like to have her closer than that. An hour ago she wasn’t sure she would ever get to see Charter again. 

“If you need somewhere to sleep tonight, you can use my quarters. I have a spare bedroll in the rookery.” 

After a moment Charter shakes her head. “I should stay with the other agents. I’ll come see you in the morning before I go.” 

Charter is not just another agent to her, but Leliana cannot blame her for thinking so right now. 

“Of course. Good night.”           

She watches Charter’s silhouette disappear into the light of the Herald’s Rest before going back to the rookery. Better to sleep on the hard floor with the birds than spend another night in her empty room with nothing but her mistakes for company.

*****************************************

 

It’s past midnight but the night is just beginning inside the Herald’s Rest. When Charter opens the door she’s greeted with the all too familiar sight of Bull and the Chargers drinking from their plentiful casks of ale. It’s good they bring their own, if not the Inquisition would have a shortage of drink for everyone else. The Inquisitor and Dorian cut behind them on their way up the stairs with two bottles of spirits each, likely to join one of Varric’s card games. 

The majority of the tavern’s other patrons are drunk already, and after the conversation she just had with Leliana, Charter would desperately like to be among them. They haven’t seen one another in months, and Charter rode from Val Royeaux expecting a fight. Then Leliana greeted her with whispered relief and the offer of a soft bed, like Charter is some village soldier back from war and not a spy who has never had a home to return to. 

Leliana would have meant it as a simple courtesy, but after so much time apart the offer struck something in her that made Charter feel soft with want. She has friends at Caer Bronach and from a distance it was easy to convince herself that Leliana is no different from them. But when she saw Leliana in the courtyard Charter was filled with something close to elation, despite her wounded pride. It’s better to stay here, where she can drown the feelings she shouldn’t be having in ale.

Charter can hardly even see the bar through the mass of drunken patrons dancing in front of the fireplace. Maryden plays a piece in the quick strumming style of Rivain as Blackwall thumps his palm on a drum in time. He nods to her and she returns it as she makes her way over to the bar, exchanging passing greetings with the agents she runs into on the way.

Someone presses a pint into her hand before she can sit down. Sera pulls Charter in for a neck-breaking hug. 

“You made it! All good?” 

Agents crossed passed with Red Jennys all over Thedas, and Charter herself had exchanged information with them in Halamshiral when it was deemed to benefit the Inquisition. She’s done some favors for the Jennys in Ferelden, and Charter would count Sera among her closest acquaintances at Skyhold. 

Charter takes two giant gulps from her mug. “Yeah, yeah. Val Royeaux’s still shit.” 

Sera finishes her drink and signals to Cabot for another round.

“Didn’t need a report to know that.”  

Charter downs the end of her pint just as the next one arrives. Sera cocks her head.

“Surprised you’re not up there with our Shadow of Birds. She’ll be happy to see you.” 

Charter just drinks again. 

Her methods may be unorthodox, but if Sera wasn’t one of the Inquisitor’s companions she would surely have been welcomed as an agent by Leliana. Charter has caught them on more than one occasion talking about pranking Cullen, poor bastard. 

“Saw her reading a letter the other week, runner said it was from you. She smiled at it, actually smiled!” Sera leans in conspiratorially. “So I nicked it when she wasn’t looking.”

Charter nearly chokes on her ale. “You stole from Leliana?!” 

“Borrowed! And she probably knew I took it. Was gonna read it and put it back, but it was just a bunch of weird jibberish.” 

“We encrypt our correspondence so other people can’t read it. That’s the whole point.” 

Charter watches as Sera shrugs and downs the rest of her second pint. At this rate they’ll both be sleeping under the bar tonight. The reminder that she could be in Leliana’s bed instead sends Charter deep into her mug again. 

Sera motions to Cabot for another round. “Yeah, well, it’s working. Not just the jibberish, the other stuff too.” 

“What’re you talking about?” 

Cabot slides their drinks down the bar and Charter grabs them, nearly knocking one over in the process. Sera usually makes more sense when Charter is a pint or two in, but so much ale on an empty stomach is making her head feel fuzzy. 

Sera turns and pokes Charter in the chest, making her grab the bar for balance.

“She likes you. Trusts you. Don’t think those are the same thing with her either. Not like it is with some people.”

Charter doesn’t want to have a conversation about Leliana’s feelings, or her feelings, or anyone’s feelings. How to change the subject? She could tell Sera that she and Sparrow had spent the evening dressed up as harlequins and just walked out of the House of Repose with the contract before burning it to ash. If anyone would appreciate the brilliance of her plan, it’s Sera. Too bad the operation was completely secret. 

“I don’t know how it is with her.” 

Sera scoffs. “Right. All I’m saying is hoods up, daggers out? I think you both get off on it.” 

Charter rolls her eyes. “You fight demons in your slippers.” 

Sera slams her mug on the bar, ale sloshing over the side. “And I’ll take this one off and fight you with it right now, see what’s what!”

Charter stands to pull off her boot and make it an even fight just as Maryden finishes a song. Krem climbs onto a chair and starts to sing as the Chargers whoop and whistle. 

“They cut into heaven and called it a door, the Herald will lead us to even the score! We’ll take back the sky and give them the floor!” 

Mugs raise all around as the rest of the tavern’s patrons join the cheer. Charter lifts her own as Sera throws her shoe in the air. 

“We’ll take back the sky and give them the floor!”

*****************************************

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Krem sings at the end is from the Inquisition codex "Take Back the Sky: A Tavern Cheer."


	6. Transfigurations

*****************************************

The Antivan ambassador’s winter residence is in the heart of the Halamshiral’s High Quarter. Josephine had hardly used the chalet during her tenure, and it took little effort to convince the new ambassador to loan it to the Inquisition for the week of the ball. The man was happy to stay with other friends in the city in exchange for the clout he gained by seeming to be so close an ally of the Inquisitor. 

Josephine gave the ambassador’s staterooms to Trevelyan, taking one of the guest apartments in the same wing. With so much at stake, it is important he maintain his focus. Sharing quarters so close to his friends and Dorian would only serve as a distraction that could prove life-threatening later. 

The first moves of tonight’s Game will take place before the Inquisition’s delegation even enters the Winter Palace. From the moment Trevelyan steps onto the grounds, those on either side of the war will be trying to assess where the Inquisition’s support lies. It is for precisely this reason that Josephine has chosen midnight blue, which Celene has favored at Court this autumn season, for their jackets trimmed in gold and paired it with a sash of crimson, for the Orlesian army and Grand Duke Gaspard. Trevelyan will at least have the benefit of appearing neutral at the onset of the ball. 

She has worked with Trevelyan for weeks on matters of Court etiquette to ensure that he makes a good enough impression on both parties to gain a seat at the negotiating table. Gaspard has become increasingly aggressive in his attempts to oust Celene recently, but Josephine has conducted a through examination of the current state of affairs and has determined that the Empress still maintains the strongest claim to the throne. 

If all goes to plan, Trevelyan will help Celene to a decisive victory and an alliance. However, there are some on both sides who will inevitably disapprove of the Inquisition’s involvement. If Josephine allows Trevelyan to falter, Orlais will slip into all-out war and the Inquisition will find itself an enemy of all parties. It is a grim possibility that Josephine has tried not to allow herself to dwell upon. 

Standing before the floor length mirror in her sitting room, she slips on the velvet military jacket with its gold epaulettes. The velvet is made from cotton instead of silk for the cooler weather, and it sits heavy on her skin as she imagines armor might. Pushing that thought away, she quickly fastens the gold buttons up to her throat. 

The sash is next, looped over the left shoulder and wrapped around the waist, cinched into place with a belt. She moves her arms to assess the fit as the door creaks opens behind her. 

“Josephine, my dear, your tailor has outdone himself. Even Sera looks presentable in uniform.”

Vivienne sweeps into the room, gliding over to Josephine as though wearing military regalia is the most natural thing in the world for a First Enchanter. This surely isn’t the case, but Josephine has always found Vivienne’s ability to rise above any social discomfort with unflappable confidence to be a most admirable skill. 

“Lady Vivienne. We have done our best, hopefully it will be adequate.” 

They kiss twice on the cheek as is custom in Orlais, though neither are Orlesian. Ever since Vivienne joined the Inquisition she and Josephine have developed as warm a relationship as any two courtiers currently sharing an alliance of convenience can have. However, Josephine does not presume to know Vivienne well enough to guess why she is here. 

As far as players of the Game go, Leliana is certainly the most formidable amongst the Inquisition, however staying alive at the Imperial Court as a mage and mistress to a powerful courtier is no small task. Vivienne has demonstrated an impressive degree of creativity while minimizing personal risk. That survival instinct is something the Inquisitor, and sometimes even Leliana, lacks. As his diplomatic advisor Josephine has often taken advantage of tea with Vivienne to learn from her gamesmanship on Trevelyan’s behalf 

Vivienne looks her over slowly, as if searching for faults in the stitching of Josephine’s coat. “Yes. Tonight will certainly be a test.” 

When her eyes meet Josephine’s, the intensity of her stare makes it clear that Vivienne has been appraising far more than the quality of her clothing. Josephine has received such scrutiny from enough senior diplomats at Court to keep her own expression placid as she responds. 

“Indeed.” 

It is dangerous to guess aloud at the intentions of a player of Vivienne’s skill. Josephine waits, slipping on the gloves that match her belt and boots. She flexes her fingers to find the leather is supple enough to hold a pen, or, if need be, a knife. For the evening to disintegrate into violence would be truly catastrophic, but it would not be the first time in the history of Orlais that such an thing occurred. 

The possibility that Gaspard and Celene may turn on each other at the Winter Palace looms ever-present. In such an event the Inquisition would likely be caught in the middle. Josephine is prepared to do whatever she can to avoid bloodshed, but the thought that a moment may come when the situation is beyond her control sits like a stone in the pit of her stomach. 

Vivienne steps behind her as Josephine looks up into the mirror. A shadow of a frown crosses Vivienne’s face. “The Inquisitor is blind to the true risks we take here, but you and I are not. Only the greatest players of the Game will emerge victorious this evening.” 

Vivienne reads her too easily; Josephine must play far better in the coming hours. Josephine stands perfectly still as Vivienne carefully smoothes down the edge of Josephine’s sash where it loops beneath her epaulette. “Leliana chose well when she asked you to be our ambassador. However, you would do well to remember that she is not the only one with friends at this Court. I can assure you that there will be many in attendance tonight who know of your skill and look forward to seeing you and the Inquisitor play to success.” 

It is as great a vote of confidence as any one player could give to another. Josephine abandons the mirror to face Vivienne directly. The enchanter shows no hint of malice, not that Josephine would expect her to do so openly. Still, Vivienne’s tone seemed earnest so Josephine responds in kind. 

“Thank you. I will do my best.” 

Vivienne gives her a dazzling smile. “Good. Shall we go then?” 

Josephine and Vivienne make their way out of the residence and into the courtyard where the Inquisitor and his companions are crowded around a table with Leliana and an agent. Josephine can just barely see the top of Cassandra’s head behind Blackwall and Dorian as she descends the stairs. Vivienne stops a short distance from the others as though content to observe rather than engage with them directly. Josephine follows suit. 

“You’ll surrender your weapons here. Once we’re inside, my agents will ensure you can access them if and when the need arises.”

Trevelyan nods to Leliana as he passes a bow and quiver to the agent, then calls to Sera over his shoulder. “You’ve brought the flasks?” 

The elf appears from behind Blackwall. She produces a satchel and extends it to the agent with a grin. Josephine is about to tell Vivienne that her assessment of Sera’s presentability had been correct, but then Sera opens her mouth and Josephine is reminded yet again why she had nearly begged Trevelyan to have her stay at Skyhold with Solas. 

“Grenades are in there and you know what to do with the blue and yellow bottles. Careful with the purple ones though, unless you want a little lightening up your arse.”   

The agent takes the bag hesitantly and Vivienne sighs deeply, drawing Sera’s attention as she walks away from the table.

“Oi Vivvy, no staff tonight?”

Vivienne picks at a spec of lint on her jacket. “I don’t think it will be necessary.” 

Sera’s response is a flash of teeth. “Good. Don’t need any weird magic shit in there.”

Vivienne smiles mildly. “Oh Sera, I certainly don’t need a staff or a little glass bottle to produce a bit of lightening.” 

The insult is delivered so deftly that Josephine cannot help but pity Sera, who pales at the threat. Having just handed over his own staff, Dorian appears and the thick cloud of tension hanging between Sera and Vivienne dissipates. The elf mumbles something at Vivienne, likely a curse, before walking away. 

It’s then that Josephine notices that Dorian has a small hatbox under his arm. She sighs. Dorian had only agreed to wear the uniform on the condition that he was allowed to choose his accessories. 

“Madame de Fer, I was wondering what you think of my mask. I had it commissioned just for this occasion.” 

Vivienne beckons him closer. “Let’s see it on, my dear.” 

He pulls an intricate gold mask with feathers from the box and puts it on, striking a dramatic pose. He is a handsome man and knows it. “What do you think?” 

Vivienne claps her hands together with a grin. “Absolutely wonderful. No one will expect feathers from a Tevinter.” 

He bows with dramatic flourish as Josephine excuses herself to see Leliana. The Inquisition’s spymaster – and by extension her agents - have been in Halamshiral for days, having left Skyhold to make preparations in advance of the delegation’s arrival. She proposed the current plan of smuggling weapons inside. While Josephine opposed the notion in principle, no one can argue that it is better that Trevelyan be armed should the worst come to pass. 

Cassandra and Blackwall are in front of the table now. Josephine had overseen the jacket fittings for all the members of the Inquisition, but Cassandra looks even more fetching in full uniform than Josephine had expected. The high collar accentuates her jawline and she has the bearing and posture of one who is used to wearing heavy armor, so the jacket sits well across her shoulders. 

Cassandra delivers her sheathed sword to the agent by the hilt, her attention on Blackwall. “We should leave the shields here. Without adequate armor it will be of little use and only slow us down.” 

Blackwall hands over his own sword and swings his shield onto the table. “Good point. This would be easier if we were allowed to wear ceremonial armor. At least then I could fight without worrying about getting an arm lopped off.”

Leliana gives Josephine a small smile as she reaches the table. “Hello, Josie. We’re nearly finished here.”

“Lady Josephine.” Blackwall bows deeply and Cassandra meets her eyes briefly over his prone form. Josephine’s stomach flips. 

“Warden Blackwall, Lady Cassandra.” 

She inclines her head to both as Cullen jogs up. “The soldiers are in formation and Dennet’s brought out the horses. We should go.” 

Two columns of soldiers led by Inquisition standard-bearers now stand at attention in the middle of the courtyard. Before them are five pairs of horses held by grooms, each wearing a red and gold saddlecloth embroidered with the Inquisition’s heraldry. The Inquisitor walks over to where Master Dennet holds the head of Trevelyan’s chestnut mare in front of the rest. 

When she first arrived from the Anderfels, Trevelyan was so enamored by the horse that he had Harritt forge an armor set for her that was as formidable as his own. The dragonplate gleams in the twilight and Trevelyan doesn’t bother to use the mounting block as he springs into the saddle. 

It was decided weeks ago that the former Hands of the Divine would ride next in the procession, and Cassandra quickly mounts and gather the reins on a black Amaranthine Charger worth more at auction than the eight Orlesian Coursers behind it. Even without armor she looks battle ready, holding the reins loosely in her left hand as the right rests at her side where her sword should be.

Beside them is the more finely-boned horse that was gifted to Leliana by Queen Anora after the Fifth Blight. He bears an unusual coloring: his coat is nearly as dark as the Charger’s but his mane and tail are the color of cream. Leliana has kept him boarded in Val Royeaux since before the Inquisition began, and by the affectionate way she strokes his muzzle and shoulder before climbing into the saddle, his presence has been missed. 

A shout from one soldier to another startles some of the horses in the line. Josephine’s bay Courser hardly seems to notice, for which she is grateful. She would not consider herself to be entirely comfortable on horseback, and if she did not think the decision to ride would help the Inquisitor make a memorable impression, she would gladly be in a carriage instead of riding next to Cullen. Glancing over her shoulder, Vivienne and Dorian both look to be of a similar mind. Behind them, Josephine can see Blackwall holding the reins of Sera’s mount. The elf made no secret of her fear of horses and Josephine was thankful that he volunteered to ride beside her.

With everyone mounted the Inquisitor whistles and his horse starts forward. Josephine takes a deep breath and sends a prayer to the Maker as her horse and those around her follow Trevelyan out of the gates and into the city.

 

*****************************************

The evening streets of the High Quarter swirl with colors as those attending the ball make their way to the Winter Palace. Charter sits at the windowsill in the top floor of the warehouse across from the Chantry. It had been her observation post when Grand Cleric Victoire had been in the city and later became a rendezvous point for other agents on Leliana’s payroll. Little has changed in this room since she left the city more than a year ago, but the world outside feels like a different one altogether.

“Shhhh. They’re coming.”

Cullen’s soldiers carry the Inquisition banner high as Trevelyan and his companions ride up the boulevard through the center of Halamshiral. They pass in front of the Chantry’s lamp-lit gates and Charter catches a flash of copper as Leliana rides by below. The spymaster doesn’t look up, but is no doubt aware of the eyes on their group.

Charter had not expected Leliana to want her help here after what had happened with the Houses of Repose. The morning after, she was preparing to leave Skyhold for Caer Bronach when Leliana met her in the stables. With the horses as witness, Leliana apologized and vowed not to let personal feelings get in the way of their work again. Charter didn’t ask what was meant by personal feelings and Leliana didn’t elaborate further.

When the conversation was over, the elf had unsaddled her horse and gone back to the rookery with the spymaster to help plan for Halamshiral. There was no question that Leliana would need to be at the Inquisitor’s side all night, but it still surprised Charter that Leliana asked her to act as Spymaster in her stead. She allowed Charter to take the lead as they worked together to develop communication networks for their spies during the ball and for information that would need to come to Leliana directly. Before the Inquisitor and his retinue arrived, the two of them had crept through the Winter Palace grounds and the dark streets of Halamshiral putting the final details in place. It was the most time they’d spent together since Haven, and the happiest Charter had been in months.

“Sweet Maker, Trevelyan’s got enough armor on that horse to outfit half an army.” To Charter’s left, Varric has turned over a crate and is standing at the next window. Even with the extra height he barely reaches the Iron Bull’s shoulder.

The qunari lets out a low chuckle.  “I still can’t believe Trevelyan got Sera on a horse.”

The riders and soldiers pass out of sight around the corner. Charter turns away from the window as Varric jumps off the crate and picks up his crossbow from the nearby table.

“Well, now that we’ve paid our respects to our fearless leader it’s time for me to go find out what the Carta is up to.”

Charter hands him his quiver of bolts. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” He disappears into the dark hallway towards the stairs and Charter returns to the window.

By the time the entourages of the Duke of Ghislain and the Marquis de Chevin have passed, three masked men have joined Bull and Charter in the semi-darkness, each clad in Orlesian finery beneath their cloaks.

With guests from all over Orlais, there will be more secrets being exchanged in the Winter Palace tonight than there are ears to hear them. Leliana cannot be the Inquisition’s only eyes in the ballroom. Elven agents will go unseen amongst the servants, but the humans must hide in plain sight amongst the guests. Butcher, Rector and Painter are senior operatives who have all worked undercover in the Imperial Court before.

Charter pulls three crisply folded pieces of sealed parchment from her vest. “Your invitations. All of your covers are minor courtiers so as long as you keep your masks on you shouldn’t be recognized.”

Rector flips open his parchment, reading quickly. ““What if the actual Maurice de Rennard shows up?”

Bull leans against the wall, crossing one ankle over the other. The iron of his brace creaks with the movement. “My people have made sure there won’t be any surprise appearances.”

Butcher slips his invitation beneath his cloak. “I saw a woman in the market this morning who met the description of one of the Venatori agents we’ve been keeping an eye on around Crestwood. They’ll have spies inside the ball. Should we engage them?”

Charter shakes her head. “Avoid it if you can. Figuring out who they’re reporting to is the priority here, but if one of them makes an attempt on the Inquisitor or Celene, neutralize them. ”

Bull comes to stand beside her. “Red and I have both gotten reports they’re planning something big in the Western Approach. The Inquisitor wants to get out there soon, so we need to know what they’re doing.”

The Ben-Hassrath have nearly as many spies in Orlais as Leliana does. Both are concerned about the Venatori, so for now the relationship is mutually beneficial for all involved.

“Sparrow is already inside and we’ll have other agents hidden amongst the servants. If you find anything that might impact tonight’s proceedings, get it to Nightingale. Everything else comes to me.”

Painter puts up a hand. He’s a relative unknown to Charter: Rector works out of Skyhold and Val Royeaux, but Painter has spent most of his time with the Inquisition in Northern Orlais and Nevarra.

“Where can we find you?” he asks.

“I’ll be serving petit-fours in the ballroom.”

Butcher sucks his teeth. “Is that necessary? Argent and Scriber will be hidden around the grounds, we could rendezvous with you at one of their meeting points.”

It is necessary and he knows it, but the fact that he cares enough to say something makes him a better friend than most. Leliana had also been incensed when Charter had presented this part of her plan, but there is no other way for her to move freely inside the Palace.

Charter shakes her head. “I need to be able to get to Nightingale and the Inquisitor if something goes wrong.”

That seems to satisfy the group. Painter gives her a tentative half smile. “I’ve got some good bottles of wine set aside in my safehouse. When we’re done here maybe we can open them to celebrate the success of your operation.”

It’s a kind gesture from a relative stranger. Charter is relieved that despite their lack of acquaintance Painter seems to trust her leadership. Bull taps a finger against his chin. “That’s not a bad plan. I brought a few casks of good stuff from Skyhold.”

Rector leers at him. “Which good stuff? One of my friends got so drunk off something one of your Chargers gave him that he thought he’d gone blind.”

“That’s just part of the experience.”

Butcher snickers as Charter clears her throat to bring their attention back. “As fun as this is, the Inquisitor is likely in the Winter Palace now so if you three want to help him you should get going.”

The agents slip on their masks and take their leave to join the other party guests making their way through the street towards the Winter Palace. Bull hefts his giant great ax onto his shoulder.

“I’m heading out to meet some of my agents around town. See you back at Josephine’s place?”

“Yeah. Just don’t crack the casks too early, I think it might be a long night.” Charter pulls on her own cloak and they head for the door.

 

*****************************************

Leliana rests an elbow on one of the high tables lining the walls of the grand ballroom, observing the masked guests. Those with enough courage to attend this ball are there for one of two purposes: to play on one of the warring party’s behalf or to spy for other kingdoms with a vested interest in the outcome.

Leliana’s eyes comb the room, catching on those of another bard conducting the same assessment from across the dance floor. The woman wears a dainty mask that does little to hide the sharpness of the hunger in her eyes. They are the same shade as Marjolaine’s and for a moment Leliana is eighteen again, flushing under the dark gaze of her mistress.

Leliana had submitted completely to Marjolaine and in doing so learned just how much pleasure could be taken from having total control over another’s desire. She blinks at the memory and the bard across the room turns her head slightly to talk to another guest. Leliana keeps her gaze fixed and feels a prick of triumph when the bard’s eyes flick back to her when she thinks Leliana is no longer looking.

In another time, Leliana might have taken the woman to bed at the end of the night and used her sharpest knife to peel away the layers of silk and lace between them. A disarmed bard is easily a dead one, and Leliana had once found the risk to be exhilarating. Now she cannot afford such trivialities despite their lovely trappings.

Sighing softly, Leliana lets her eyes move to other guests, visualizing exactly what skills Marjolaine might have employed to gain one’s attention or send another to retire early, never again to rise from their bed. Leliana has long mastered these skills and more besides, yet even now she feels the bard master’s presence like a caress at the back of her neck.

Her devotion to Marjolaine made her the most diligent of students, and though the woman has been dead for many years, her shadow has followed Leliana from the dark alleys of Denerim to the marbled halls of the Grand Cathedral. Marjolaine’s bow loosed the arrows with which Leliana fought the archdemon, and the memory of her lessons kept the knife in Leliana’s hand when Justinia asked what felt like too much. If Marjolaine had known a trick for killing corrupted Tevinter magisters, Thedas would perhaps already be saved.

Instead, the Inquisition comes to Halamshiral to save the Orlesian monarchy, though what exactly that means is a matter still up for debate. Gaspard and Celene work the room as though co-hosting an autumn soirée instead of a gathering that will likely determine which of them live to see the next sunrise. It is good they’ve decided to meet at the Winter Palace instead of in Val Royeaux, all the gold will contrast beautifully with the blood that will inevitably be spilled.

For now though, the marble is clean and Josephine’s work has paid off; the Inquisitor has been well received by Celene at their introduction. His companions are easily identified by their red sashes, and Leliana is aware of Sera a good eight seconds before the elf appears at her side. Leliana had encouraged Trevelyan to bring her despite Josephine’s protestations. An elf might ruffle the nobles but endear the Inquisitor to the servants and potentially to Briala, who has plenty of agents of her own who might have valuable information.

“Did you hear him? ‘Lord My balls itch of course’, Inky said there was no way he’d say it!”

“It was well played.” Sera’s impression of Celene’s Orlesian herald is surprisingly accurate and Leliana gives her a genuine smile, likely the only one she’ll receive in tonight’s company.

Sera leans on the table and cuts her eyes at Leliana. With a low voice she says, “Speaking of playing, are you...tonight?”

“We all are.”

Sera rolls her eyes and picks up a glass of wine, downing more than half of it on the first sip. “I know. I mean _our_ playing, not Josephine’s playing. All this wine everywhere, it’d be a shame if some ended up on somebody’s dress or satin trousers.” She wiggles her eyebrows at Leliana. “So, what do you think?”

If Leliana had met Sera during her early days as a bard, they would have been an unholy terror together. Josephine is lucky she does not encourage the elf more than she does. “Do you have a target in mind?”

Sera’s eyes swing around the room. “There’s enough wine for all of them but no way could we pull it off just the two of us. Maybe if there’s more Jennys here...but you probably know some of these nobs, right? Got to be one you’ve got your eye on.”

It would not be difficult to choose; most of the guests are acquaintances but not all are friends. “Let me think about it.”

Sera’s face lights up. “Brilliant!” Trevelyan waves at Sera from nearby and points to the door to the vestibule. “That’s the signal, got to go.”

If that’s the greatest degree of subtlety Trevelyan is capable of, it will be a short night for all of them. “Be careful, Sera.”

Sera whispers loudly behind her hand. “Don’t worry, I’ve got five knives on me right now.”

“Just five?”  It’s an impressive number to be carrying so publicly and against Josephine’s instructions, but Leliana enjoys teasing the elf too much to simply congratulate her.

Sera looks her over as though expecting Leliana to just have blades sticking out of her pockets.  “How many have you got?”

Only three, but Leliana has counted no less than four other items around her that could be used as weapons if the situation required. Failing that, her own two hands would be more than adequate.

She feigns nonchalance, looking at Sera out of the corner of her eye.  “More than five.”

Sera cackles and pushes back from the table. “Course you do. Try to keep them in your trousers until I get back, yeah? If we’re shanking nobles tonight I don’t want to miss any of it.”

Leliana smiles to herself as the elf lopes off. The door to the vestibule opens soon after and Sera slinks out as Morrigan steps into the ballroom. She moves as gracefully in a ball gown as any woman in attendance, and the groups of courtiers between her and Celene are quick to step from her path. It is not respect but fear that moves them, and Leliana suspects Morrigan delights in that more than her placid expression would imply.

“Would the lady care for an hors d'oeuvre?”

Charter lowers the tray propped against her shoulder, offering a selection of petit-fours. She wears the typical attire of a Court servant and Leliana can imagine little she would like less than to have Charter subjugate herself here.

When she was younger, Leliana had hardly noticed the elves responsible for refreshments at the soirées she attended. Travelling with Tabris changed that, and while Leliana would have liked to overrule Charter’s plan, she had already given the elf permission to oversee operations tonight. To withdraw it over her own discomfort would have undone all that Leliana had worked to mend between them since Charter went to the House of Repose.

As they had planned, Leliana pretends to examine each item on the tray.

“Can you make a suggestion? I’m afraid there are too many delightful options for me to choose from.”

“The chocolate ganache is an excellent choice if the lady enjoys something sweet.”

“I do.” Ganache is her favorite, as Charter is well aware, and Leliana doesn’t miss the way the elf’s eyes dance. Leliana bites her cheek to keep from smiling as she takes the pastry between two fingers, careful to lift the wax paper casing along with it. She balances it in her other palm and can feel the thickness of a small piece of parchment beneath.

Charter bows and picks the tray back up again. “A good evening to you.”

She moves on. Leliana gently separates the parchment from the wax, concealing it in one hand as she consumes the ganache in two dainty bites. She places the used wax paper on the table and picks up a fine linen napkin. She brushes it over her hands delicately, opening the parchment and quickly reading as she does so.

Gaspard blames the conflict on Briala, which is unsurprising considering the rumors about her and Celene. Of greater interest is that Morrigan has spoken to Trevelyan, claiming to have killed a Venatori assassin near the servants’ quarters. The Inquisitor has gone to investigate, Charter has also set agents.

Morrigan must know she is here, and yet she went to Trevelyan instead. There are greater things at stake than her pride so Leliana forces herself to not to take it as an insult. She folds the parchment into one hand and slips it into her pocket as she puts the napkin back on the table with the other. She takes a slow sip of wine and begins scanning the room again. They cannot afford to overlook anyone tonight.

 

*****************************************

A dead harlequin dressed in all white lies in the middle of the hallway in the Royal Wing, a pool of blood seeping from beneath its body.

Sera nudges the harlequin with her toe, then reaches down to pull Briala’s throwing knife from its back. The elf holds it up to the light then wipes it off and slips it into her belt.

“Briala seems like a cheery sort,” she says.

Dorian twirls his staff. “There was certainly some charm beneath the layers of disgust. She and Solas would get on well.”

“Friggin’ elfy elves.” Sera rips an arrow out of one of the assassin’s faces.

Trevelyan leans against the wall, a silver flask in hand. When he opens it Cassandra catches a faint whiff of strong alcohol. She nearly loses her grip on her sword. “Trevelyan, are you _drinking_?”

He swigs then slips the flask back into his vest, stepping smoothly around the bodies in the hall.

“Let’s see. I’m trying to keep two royal houses from killing each other by blackmailing them, the bloody Venatori have shown up, and now I’ve got Celene’s scorned elven lover and her entire spy network to deal with too. Oh, and Josephine keeps making me dance with old women every time I go into the ballroom. You’d be drinking too if you were me right now.”

Dorian puts up a finger. “Don’t forget you’ve got to decide whether Celene gets to keep her throne or not.”

Trevelyan throws up his hands as he walks towards the library they passed through on their way in. “You’re not helping!”

Cassandra has hardly observed a cross word between them since Dorian joined the Inquisition and neither make any effort to hide it on the occasions when they share a tent at camp. The last thing anyone needs right now is a lovers quarrel, so Cassandra glares at Dorian until he mutters a weak apology.

Cassandra had assumed Trevelyan would be in his element tonight. He enjoys the spotlight more than most but the state of affairs here are far more dire than anyone could have expected. They have come so far it is easy to forget that he still needs guidance. She slips her sword back into its sheath and the group starts to make their way back down to the garden.

“Celene has proven herself inept. Gaspard will provide stability and the military alliance the Inquisition needs.”

Sera trots down the stairs behind her. “Don’t know about all that, Seeker. Gaspard looks like more of the same, just less good looking. Celene will help us if we help her, that’s how it works with big people.”

Trevelyan leads them back across the garden towards the Grand Ballroom. “Neither will be of any use with Briala’s people undermining them at every turn.”

An elf in a scout’s uniform waits at the top of the stairs back into the palace.

“Speaking of her people...” Dorian says.

“That’s Brewer, she’s our people you bloody git.” Sera punches him lightly in the shoulder as they approach.

The elf salutes the Inquisitor and produces their jackets and sashes. “Charter told me to bring you these. The first bell just sounded in the ballroom so you’d best hurry.”

They pass Brewer their weapons and Sera chatters with the other elf as they quickly slip on their uniforms. Once their sashes are secure, the Inquisitor thanks Brewer and takes off towards the ballroom with his companions close behind.

They reach the vestibule just as the second bell tolls. Cassandra slows to a walk and Sera falls into step next to her as Dorian holds open the door.

The ballroom is more crowded than it was before and the group is quickly separated. Trevelyan goes left, towards Gaspard’s retinue. Cassandra heads the opposite direction and nearly runs right into Vivienne.

“Cassandra my dear, you look ravishing.”

Vivienne wraps a hand around the back of Cassandra’s neck as she kisses her on both cheeks. Cassandra takes no pleasure in the unnecessary physical contact Orlesians are so fond of and quickly withdraws. Vivienne’s hand remains pressed against the right side of her neck, and Cassandra becomes aware of a sudden itch beneath the skin there.

“What are you doing?” she hisses.

Vivienne slowly removes her hand, glancing at Cassandra’s neck then back to her face with a satisfied expression.

“You were bleeding. Did you run into trouble?”

Cassandra crosses her arms. “Of a sort. Thank you for the healing, I had not realized I was cut.”

“Of course, I’m always happy to help.”

It is unfortunate that Trevelyan does not take Vivienne up on her offers more often. She is powerful but cooler-headed in battle than Dorian, and Cassandra is more comfortable around Vivienne than the other mages of the Inquisition. Regalyan would surely have shared Vivienne’s opinions on the Circles if he had survived the conclave, and it is a small comfort to know others in the Inquisition value order and caution with magic even if the Inquisitor does not.  

A classic Orlesian cello suite begins and many around the ballroom take to the dancefloor, the Inquisitor among them.

Vivienne turns to her. “Shall we dance?”

“I’m sorry?” Cassandra sputters.

Vivienne laughs lightly. “You’ve been around this Court for twenty years, my dear. You know the Orlesian waltz as well as I do. If you’re unsure of your footwork I’m happy to lead.”

Cassandra bristles. Her footwork is more than adequate, at least it was when she was last forced to dance at Divine Beatrix’s 80th birthday celebration.

“I will lead,” she says, through clenched teeth.

“Good.”

Cassandra takes Vivienne’s hand and leads her onto the ballroom floor as the music picks up.

Vivienne is light-footed and Cassandra reluctantly relaxes into the dance and its never-ending turns and change steps.

“It seems you’ve caught our Lady Ambassador’s eye.”

Vivienne murmurs the words against Cassandra’s ear, and Cassandra nearly misses a step as the goosebumps prickle up her neck.

“What?”

They change steps and when Vivienne begins to lead Cassandra allows it. Over her shoulder, Cassandra catches a glimpse of Josephine twirling by and follows the ambassador’s line of movement until Josephine’s eyes meet hers on a change step and on the three that follow as the pairs move in a circle around the floor.

The orchestra transitions into a different key, signally a new dance. Vivienne leads Cassandra through one more turn and then the Seeker suddenly finds herself alone before Josephine, Vivienne’s laughter drifting away with the changing melody.

It is another classic piece but less formal than the waltz, and Cassandra swallows hard as she offers Josephine her hand. Josephine takes it with a shy smile, stepping closer to rest her free hand lightly on Cassandra’s shoulder as Cassandra presses her palm to Josephine’s back. It is by far the closest they have ever been to one another, and Cassandra can feel the shallow rise and fall of Josephine’s breath as the first bars of the new piece are played.

The steps are fast and without thinking, Cassandra pulls Josephine closer. For a few blissful minutes Cassandra forgets that they are in Halamshiral as they fly across the floor. She spins Josephine as the music ends and they finish face to face, both breathing hard. Josephine slides her hand off Cassandra’s shoulder and down her arm. Their fingers brush a moment longer than necessary before Josephine’s hands drop to her sides, and Cassandra has to force herself to breathe.

Some of the dancers around them have broken into applause, and Cassandra composes herself enough to notice the Inquisitor pulling Duchess Florianne up from a dramatic dip. He bows to her before walking over to Josephine and Cassandra.

“Well, how did I do?”

Josephine grins. “You were magnificent, my lord. You have surely won the Court’s favor with that performance.”

“Let’s hope so. I’ve gathered some information that might be of use, we should speak to Cullen and Leliana.”

“Of course. Let us go upstairs then.” Josephine dips her head to Cassandra. “It was a pleasure, Lady Seeker.”

Cassandra bows. “Ambassador.”

Josephine turns for the stairs but Trevelyan backs away more slowly. He puts a hand to his chest where his flask is stored and gives Cassandra a wink as he goes. She rolls her eyes and makes her way quickly off the dance floor.

 

*****************************************

Charter slings a tray of canapés onto one shoulder. The entire gathering stopped to watch when the Inquisitor danced with Florianne, giving her an opportunity to quietly collect stolen documents and other information from her agents throughout the room.

Sparrow pretends to bump into her in the middle of the walkway. “Find Painter and get to the Royal Wing.”

He spins away to flirt with one of the members of the Council of Heralds and Charter continues to weave through the crowd towards the vestibule. She finds Painter in the Hall of Heroes, in conversation with some soldiers. Charter sets the tray down on a nearby table then turns back into the vestibule. By the time she makes it onto the stairs to the Royal Wing, Painter is only a few steps behind.

As they crest the dark landing, Butcher steps out of the shadows. “Where’s Rector?” he whispers.

Charter cranes her neck to look back down into the vestibule, but there’s no sign of him. “Is he supposed to be here?”

The door to the Royal Wing swings open from the inside and Rector beckons them inside urgently. They move silently to a small sitting room as Butcher closes and locks the door behind them.

Charter leans against an empty table. “What have you got?”

Rector takes off his mask, his face drawn. “The Venatori aren’t here to help Gaspard.”

Charter blinks. “Then who are they helping?”

“Florianne.” Butcher pulls out a thin stack of papers and hands it to Charter. “Rector and I have been taking turns searching the apartments of all the known Venatori agents here. I found these orders from Florianne in the quarters of one of the senior handlers.”

Charter skims the text as Rector looks on. “At least two agents stay in her line of sight at all times in the ballroom. We think they’re waiting for a signal of some sort.”

Painter says, “I heard whispers in the gardens that tonight lions will cease to roar. She must be part of their plan.”

Charter stands up. After Trevelyan’s dance with Florianne there seemed to be a disagreement between the advisors and the Inquisitor, perhaps this was why. “Does Nightingale know this?”

Butcher shakes his head. “There are too many Venatori in the ballroom now and she is known to them. I couldn’t risk it.”

Charter can’t fault him for that. Her operation had worked well thus far, but adaptations are inevitable on a job of this size.

“We need to find Trevelyan then.”

“We need to be quick,” Rector says. “He and Florianne have both disappeared from the ballroom. I was late because I wanted to see where they’d gone. I couldn’t find Florianne but Trevelyan took the Seeker and two others up to the Royal Apartments. I think the Inquisitor will try to confront her there.”

“Let’s go.”

Charter pulls a dagger from under her servant’s tunic and the others draw their own weapons. She expects at least a few agents on patrol, but they cross the palace in silence with only dead bodies slumped beneath windows and along the halls for company.

They wind their way to the far end of the wing where the walls are covered in scaffolding for renovations. Butcher opens the door to one of the balconies and Charter sees Florianne at the opposite terrace, calling down to the Inquisitor and his companions in the courtyard.

“Can you hear what they’re saying?” Painter whispers.

Suddenly, the air around them cracks and a rift appears above the garden, spewing demons at the Inquisitor’s party.

“Shit.” Rector pulls an amulet of Andraste from beneath his shirt.

Charter grabs him by the shoulder. “Come on, we need to get down there. Butcher do you know the way?”

“Yes, come on!” They sprint through the palace halls and down a back stairwell. Butcher shoves a door open just as the Inquisitor’s mark begins to glow. The rift closes with a deafening crack and the last of the demons falls as Cassandra’s sword cleaves its head in two. Neither she nor any of the others are wearing armor, and Sera’s jacket is singed from where she was either burned or used too many fire flasks. Charter sends a quick prayer of thanks to the Maker that they’re all alive.

Charter runs up to Trevelyan, who is slinging his bow over his shoulder. “Inquisitor, Florianne is--”

“I know. We need to get to the ballroom, come on!”

They sprint for the south entrance back into the palace, through a hallway and into a small chapel. A group of Venatori appear behind them and Charter flings one of her daggers at an archer whose bow was trained at the Inquisitor. “We’ll take care of them! Go!”

Butcher, Rector and Painter are already locked into battle with the Venatori as Trevelyan shouts his thanks and runs on with Cassandra and Dorian at his heels. Sera fires a hail of arrows over her shoulder before following him, disposing of two more of the Venatori archers just as a harlequin appears.

When the fight is over the chapel floor is slick with Venatori blood. Charter is careful not to slip as she and the other agents run for the ballroom. Butcher opens the door just as the guards haul Florianne off the ballroom floor in chains.

“Oh, thank the Maker,” he murmurs.

The Inquisitor goes onto one of the balconies with Celene and Gaspard. In their absence the room explodes into whispers as most of the guests try to make sense of what’s happened. Charter counts eight who have begun to quietly make their way to the side doors.

“The Venatori are abandoning ship. If you see an agent try to leave the room, follow them.”

Rector, Painter, and Butcher melt back into the crowd. Charter shoves her way towards where Sera stands at a nearby table waving excitedly.

Charter slides to a halt beside her. “What happened?”

“So we run in, right? Cullen is absolutely shitting himself because Celene is about to start her big speech. Inky tells him no worries, goes down onto the ball room floor and exposes Florianne in front of everyone!  Gaspard was all shocked he got framed but Celene acted like she knew all along that someone would try to kill her. Which she sort of did, just got the wrong De Chalons. Now Inky’s got to pick which one of them’s going to be in charge now.”

Briala has just walked out onto the balcony, but Charter can’t see anything beyond that. “He hasn’t already decided?”

Sera shrugs and guzzles from a glass of wine. “Hasn’t said one way or the other. Oh shit, the guards got Gaspard too!”

The crowd near the balcony parts as two chevaliers lead the dejected Grand Duke towards the vestibule. Celene glides back into the ballroom with the Inquisitor and Briala. She looks incredibly calm for someone who was almost assassinated.

When she introduces Briala as Marquise of the Dales, there is an audible gasp around the room. Sera snorts.

“Those two’ll be having some private negotiations later, if you know what I mean.”

No one had predicted the night could end with Briala being elevated to nobility. Charter tracks the Inquisitor’s path to the advisors waiting for him at the other end of the walkway. Cullen is the only one who looks disappointed with the outcome. Josephine speaks to Trevelyan animatedly as Leliana watches them, not bothering to hide the pride on her face.

Sera waves a hand in front of Charter’s face. “Hey, you don’t need to pretend to be one of their pets anymore. Get changed so we can go make some more nobles uncomfortable. Leliana’s promised pranks.”

Of course she has. Maker only knows what Sera’s planned, but if Leliana’s involved it’s going to be good. Charter downs the rest of Sera’s glass of wine.

“I’ll be back.”

*****************************************

With the matter of the throne resolved, the party in the Winter Palace becomes decidedly less restrained. Those who supported Celene toast their victory while those who cast their fortunes with Gaspard work the room in search of new alliances that might keep their positions amongst the Court secure. A few from either side have excused themselves to tend to their wine soaked costumes after a minor run in with Sera and Charter at one of the buffet tables.

The Inquisitor has come into his own, leading the dancers on the ballroom floor through a spirited allemande. Dorian is beside him, matching Trevelyan step for step. Josephine dances with the Marquis de Chevin, while Cullen and Cassandra share drinks with some of the chevaliers upstairs.

As the dance ends, Celene signals that she is retiring for the night and the crowd acknowledges her departure. The ball will begin winding down now, though the Inquisition’s celebrations will surely last far into the night back at the Antivan ambassador’s residence.

Leliana slips behind the guests and out onto the side balcony where she had seen Morrigan and Trevelyan talking earlier. The mage is still there, looking out over the moonlit garden.

“Velvet suits you.”

Morrigan glances back over her shoulder but doesn’t turn around. “Were that sash a few shades darker we might have matched.”

Leliana steps up to the balcony ledge beside her. Morrigan continues to study the garden and Leliana is content to do the same. It is easier than looking into her past so directly. Perhaps it is so for Morrigan as well.

“Josephine picked the livery, I had less of a say than I would have liked.”

“Your ambassador did well tonight to keep the peace, though a coup would have been exciting.”

Exciting is not the word Leliana would have used to describe it, but Morrigan had always had a dark sense of humor. She peers at Morrigan from the corner of her eye. “Do you think Gaspard would have allowed you to come with us?”

Morrigan huffs. “Yes, if it got me away from him. He is less enamored with magic than Celene.”

A military man like Gaspard would have had little room in his Court for one such as Morrigan.

In past dynasties, Court enchanters had been little more than fools brought out for amusement. Under Celene they were taken far more seriously, due in no small part to the standard Vivienne had set. Any courtier with sense of the Game would have recognized her as a talented player, and an adept mage is as dangerous as any bard. Morrigan was an unknown, and the Court’s fears of what she might be capable of had been a valuable asset to Celene during the last few years.

Leliana directs her attention back to the shrubbery. A pair of soon-to-be lovers sneak beneath the low hanging cover of one of the trees.

“The Empress has seemed keen to show you off. Your presence alone kept dissenting voices quiet at the Comte’s soirée last year.”

“You were there?”

“You didn’t dance, poor form.”

“I was busy thinking about setting the baroness on fire.”

“That would have livened the gathering significantly.”

Morrigan laughs softly and Leliana turns to face her. The mage’s eyes glow in the moonlight, and Leliana detects flickers of something sharper behind the warm amber.

The last time they truly saw one another was the day the blight ended. The top of Fort Drakon had been covered with smoke, but through the haze Leliana had seen a darkspawn hurlock run for Morrigan’s back, sword raised to strike. Leliana had put an arrow through his head before he reached her, and Morrigan had shot her a feral grin in thanks as magic crackled around her. A moment later, the mage called down a hurricane of elemental magic decimating the wave of darkspawn before her. It had been beautifully savage and lust had run as strongly through Leliana then as her own adrenaline.

That so strong a feeling returns with such a vengeance after all these years is an inconvenience, and Leliana forces her mind to something else before Morrigan detects her discomfort.

“Is your Eluvian coming with you?”

Surprise flickers across Morrigan’s face and Leliana continues, relieved to have diverted her attention.

“You think I did not know what you were working on at the chateau of the Marquis de Serault?”

Morrigan sighs dramatically and gives Leliana a sharp look.

“Your surveillance is deeply disturbing, but yes, I think it may be of use.” She pauses for a moment, considering. “My son is also coming.”

Few at Court are even aware of Morrigan’s child. Leliana had deployed agents to keep an eye on the mage when she first appeared at Court some years ago, and even they rarely caught sight of him, though all of them reported that Morrigan seemed an attentive mother. 

“I would like to meet him.”

Morrigan’s shoulders drop slightly, the relief unmistakable. She gives Leliana a faint smile. “He has heard of you.”

The idea of Morrigan telling her child stories about their adventures during the blight makes something ache in Leliana’s bones. There had been a tension between them then that ran deeper than petty insults, and Leliana had taken Morrigan’s disappearance as badly as Tabris. When the warden wrote about her efforts to find Morrigan only for the mage to flee through an Eluvian, it became easy to believe Morrigan had never cared for any of them. It would seem that had not been the case.

The chime of bells echoes from the ballroom, signally the final dance of the night. Leliana takes advantage of the moment to step away from Morrigan and her own confusion.

“I must see to the Inquisitor. I’m sure we will speak again at Skyhold.”

Morrigan dips into a curtsey. “Indeed.”

Leliana turns on her heel and walks back into the ballroom. She doesn’t need to look back to know Morrigan is watching her leave.

*****************************************

Light still glows from the windows when Josephine steps out of the carriage at the Antivan ambassador’s residence. Soldiers stationed outside give the illusion of calm and order, but Josephine has barely made it into the foyer before running into a trio of drunken agents. They sloppily salute her on their way to do Maker knows what in their quarters upstairs.

She follows the sound of lutes to the grand salon, where two minstrels play a jaunty tune before a roaring fire. The room is already in complete disarray, with agents and off duty soldiers sprawled across the couches clapping along as the Iron Bull and Sera perform an appalling rendition of what Josephine can only guess is meant to be an Orlesian waltz.

Leliana and some of her agents are playing diamondback at a small table in the corner, and Josephine recognizes Charter sitting beside the spymaster and a wooden crate of wine bottles. Leliana whispers something and the elf laughs, throwing back the rest of her drink.

“Ruffles! Come here!”

Varric motions her over to the intricately carved wooden table in the middle of the room, its surface already littered with money and unlabelled bottles. Blackwall stands to greet her, swaying slightly, and the Inquisitor drags him back down into his seat as Dorian snickers beside him. All three of them have lost their jackets, though the Inquisitor has chosen to put his sash back on over his undershirt and Dorian somehow still has on his mask.

Cullen gives her a small wave from his perch suspiciously close to an unopened cask on the other side of the table. Cassandra sits beside him nonplussed as she drums her fingers on the table next to her own glass and a darkly tinted bottle. Her skin is flushed as she smiles at Josephine.

The dwarf motions for Josephine to sit opposite him at the other end of the table. “Well, Celene is still alive and we’ve won the night. What do you say to losing a little coin at Wicked Grace?”

Josephine drops neatly into the chair. “If you wish to throw away your hard earned wages, Varric, I will not stop you.”

The dwarf is right, thanks to them the empire is saved and an alliance with Orlais is secured. Surely there is no harm in one night of celebration before returning to Skyhold.

The Iron Bull ambles up beside them. “Everyone’s here, time to open her up!”

The Inquisitor whoops as the qunari taps the oak barrel and shoves a mug beneath.

“What is that?” Josephine whispers to Dorian.

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Dorian is right.” Cassandra grins and pours Josephine a small glass of liquid from one of the bottles in the center of the table. The scent of strongly distilled liquor and spices is familiar.

Josephine lifts an eyebrow. “Where did you acquire a bottle of Antivan Sip-Sip? The sale of so strong a libation is banned in Orlais.”

Varric shuffles the deck and grins. “The Carta _really_ appreciates your business.”  

The Inquisitor pours some of the Antivan liquor for each person at the table and raises his own glass. “And I for one appreciate you, Josephine. Tonight would not have been possible without your help.”

“Hear, hear!” Dorian shouts, and downs his drink. The rest are quick to follow, slamming their empty glasses back onto the wooden table. Josephine closes her eyes and tosses the liquor back, trying not to cough as it burns through her chest.

“Another round, to the Inquisitor!” someone shouts, and this time the entire room drinks.

By the end of the first hand of cards, the liquor has worked through her system and Josephine is feeling substantially warmer. She contemplates unbuttoning the top clasp of her jacket, but that would be improper in such mixed company.

Dorian deals next, and Josephine tips up the edge of her cards to assess her hand. It is not as good as her first, but with the right draws it may yet be salvageable. Across the table Cassandra fiddles with her own cards. She has a strong hand then. The Seeker is masterful at keeping a straight face but her fidgeting gives her away as an amateur.

She had been far more impressive earlier in the evening. Cassandra had held her so closely and led with such confidence that when their dance had ended Josephine was left breathless. If the Inquisitor and Florianne had not created such a scene, she may have done something embarrassing.

Cassandra looks up and Josephine quickly turns her attention to her coins, matching Varric’s bet and raises it. She trades Dorian for a new card and finds the hand is still poor. Blackwall folds on the next bet and Josephine reluctantly does the same.

The Iron Bull balances his cards in one hand and tips the cask with his other. “Shit, we’re out. What do you think we have to do to get Red to give us some of that wine?”

Varric grimaces, straightening his cards into a neat stack face down in front of him. “I don’t know but I’m not inviting her into the game. She can probably look you in the eyes and know your hand.”

It’s not quite true but even sober no one at the table besides herself, and maybe Varric at his cheating best, could last a whole game against Leliana without losing the shirt off of their backs.

“I’m sure there are some casks in the cellar. If you will excuse me for a moment.” Josephine pushes herself to her feet, covertly using the table to steady herself. No self-respecting Antivan would be caught stumbling on two glasses of Sip-Sip.  

Cassandra tosses her cards to Dorian and stands. “I can help bring up whatever you find.”

The Seeker smiles at her and Josephine feels her face flush. That Cassandra would waste what may have been a winning hand for a few minutes alone with her is thrilling.

“Thank you. The cellar is this way.”

They weave across the room and out the door. Josephine descends a dimly lit staircase with Cassandra close behind and the temperature drops as they move deeper below ground. The bottom of the staircase is pitch black and Josephine fumbles for a moment to light the torch mounted on the wall to her right. Even in the dark she can feel the warmth of Cassandra’s body next to hers and Josephine wills herself to focus on the task at hand.

Her hands are shaking but the torch mercifully crackles to life, casting long shadows across the rows of bottles and casks stacked in neat rows against the walls. Josephine gestures out into the room in a desperate attempt at bring her desire under control.

“So, these are our options. What would you prefer?”

“My tastes are simple. It is your choice.” Cassandra’s voice is barely a whisper and her eyes are nearly black in the torchlight. They have never been alone like this and Josephine can feel her heart hammering against her chest.

“I see.” They are so close to one another that Josephine barely has to reach out to ghost her fingertips over the back of Cassandra’s hand, as she had first done on the ballroom floor hours before. It had seemed daring then, but with no one else present the act feels drastically more intimate. Cassandra is barely breathing and Josephine knows she can have far more than this if she will only reach out and take it. She pulls Cassandra’s hand gently into the shadows beyond the reach of the flames.

Josephine’s previous lovers were tentative, as though a young woman of noble birth was too fragile to touch, and those encounters left her aching for a satisfaction she could not articulate. Cassandra shows none of that hesitation, her body meeting Josephine’s with enough force to press her up against the casks.

Cassandra kisses her deeply and Josephine threads a hand into the hair at the base of Cassandra’s neck. Her other hand clutches at Cassandra’s jacket; the velvet is now a hindrance to the amount of contact Josephine desires and she bites down hard on Cassandra’s lip in frustration. Cassandra gasps, and as though reading her mind, the Seeker shifts so that her knee is nudging Josephine’s legs apart.

Josephine’s hips involuntarily pitch forward into Cassandra’s thigh and the friction sends a shiver down Josephine’s spine into her legs. She scrambles to unbutton Cassandra’s jacket, shoving it off her shoulders. It falls away and Josephine pulls Cassandra closer, kissing the soft flesh of her exposed neck. Cassandra lets out a shaky breath as she slips one hand to Josephine’s hip, guiding her into a rhythm.

The edges of the casks are digging into her back now, but the pain is far away. She holds tight to Cassandra as the rush of her own heartbeat pounds through her ears. The tension building between her legs is too much too fast, and Josephine forces herself to stop. She puts a hand to Cassandra’s chest and feels the strength and speed of the Seeker’s heartbeat beneath her palm.

She is searching for the words to tell Cassandra that there are things she would like to do that require a bed, or at least a couch, when the moment is interrupted by loud thumping overhead coupled with voices, one of which is most certainly the Inquisitor’s.

Cassandra curses in the common tongue and Orlesian as she steps back, quickly putting on her jacket.

Josephine pushes herself away from the casks, ignoring the bruises that must be forming on her back, and straightens her own jacket. Looking around she grabs the nearest bottle of wine.

“Take any cask, I doubt they’ll care what we come back with.”

Cassandra picks one close to the stairs and hefts it onto her shoulder. She cocks her head at Josephine.

“After you.”

They ascend the stairs swiftly, and by the time they make it into the hall the voices have faded. Cassandra looks right and left. “Perhaps they have gone back to the party.”

“We can only hope,” Josephine says, walking briskly back towards the salon.

Josephine wrenches the door open and runs right into Sera who wields two forks as though they were daggers. The elf stumbles out of the doorway to allow Josephine and Cassandra through.

“Hey Inky, rescue mission’s off! They’re back!”

Leliana must have been in a generous mood because everyone is drunker than they were when she and Cassandra left. Trevelyan leaps over the couch with a heavy goblet in hand, narrowly missing Dorian, who appears to have passed out with his mask still on. Blackwall pops up beside him before Josephine, brandishing a fire iron like a sword.

Josephine steps back to avoid being hit by it. “Your Worship, if I may, what in the Maker’s name is going on?”

Trevelyan points the goblet at Leliana, who has not moved since Josephine left. The look on her face is perfectly serene, though Charter is quite obviously fighting the urge to laugh.

“Leliana informed me that strange noises had been heard near the cellars and that you may be in distress. We,” he gestures to Blackwall and Sera, “were coming and save you.”

“What?” Josephine nearly drops the wine. The cask thunks to the ground beside Josephine and Cassandra snatches one of the forks from Sera. “We were in no danger.”

“Clearly,” Leliana says, smirking as her eyes roam back and forth knowingly between Cassandra and Josephine.

Josephine’s cheeks are burning as Trevelyan hands Blackwall the goblet and picks up the cask.

He cradles the barrel in front of him. “Excellent, another round then!”

At his word to the minstrels pick up a new song and within moments the party comes back to life, Josephine and Cassandra’s disappearance already forgotten.

Cassandra gives Josephine a small smile and shrugs, following Trevelyan back towards the table. Josephine has no doubt Leliana is watching her but refuses to give the woman the satisfaction of acknowledging her as she makes her way back to her seat opposite Varric.

With any luck, perhaps she can win back some of her dignity before the night is through.

 

*****************************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be taking a short hiatus to move and start my PhD, so hopefully this extra long chapter tides everyone over for the next month!


	7. Interlude

*****************************************

 

Frost covers the window panes of Skyhold’s Great Hall, dimming the pale midwinter sun. Josephine stands in the middle of the hall as Inquisition workers bustle about her carrying armfuls of decorations.  With the winter solstice less than a week away, Josephine has found herself spending more time planning the festivities than at the war table. 

Having convinced Cullen to lend her some off-duty soldiers to assist with the preparations, Josephine has not hesitated to put them to work. Five of them stand on scaffolding erected against one of the walls, struggling to hang a massive wreath.

Josephine takes a few steps back and assesses the position of the wreath.

“A little to the left...yes, just there.” 

The soldiers heave the wreath into position and Josephine claps her hands together. 

“Perfect!”

A runner weaves through the melee of the hall to stand at Josephine’s elbow. He raises an eyebrow at the soldiers balancing precariously on the scaffolding before looking to Josephine. “The Inquisitor and Commander Cullen are in your office, Ambassador.”

"Thank you, I shall see to them at once.” 

The runner bows as Josephine quickly crosses the hall to her office. Trevelyan lounges in one of the chairs by the fire but Cullen stands. Josephine is grateful he hasn’t distressed the upholstery with his armor and furs. She greets Cullen with a nod and turns to Trevelyan with a short bow. 

“Your worship, how goes the campaign in the Emprise du Lion?”

Trevelyan stands. “Eventful, the place is crawling with red templars at out their minds on red lyrium. I thought it better to spend Yule here.” 

“Indeed.” The Inquisitor had been in the Emprise du Lion for most of the month since Halamshiral and Josephine had been glad to hear of his return, if only because it meant Cassandra would be at Skyhold. Cassandra has written to her and Josephine longs to revisit what they began in Halamshiral. 

Trevelyan hands her an unsealed letter as they make their way to the war room. “I received this message from the Marquise Matillon. It seems the Inquisition’s forces are needed in the Ylenn Basin.”

Josephine opens the letter with a frown. “It is too late in the year for fighting.”

Cullen closes the door behind them before stepping up to the map. “Snow hasn’t fallen this year in Southern Orlais and we have plenty of seasoned men in the area to conduct a brief campaign. I can dispatch a battalion of soldiers to meet the Comte’s forces in less than a week.”

Trevelyan smiles at Cullen. They’ve clearly already discussed this amongs themselves  “Good. And the Marquise has all but promised us the land in exchange, which would bring in revenue for the Inquisition, would it not?” 

Josephine places the letter on the table and sighs.  “She has promised nothing. The Marquise is a powerful woman, but even she cannot grant land rights without the support of the other members of the Council of Heralds. She offers another opportunity to prove yourself in the Game.”

Trevelyan groans. “Another opportunity? Was Halamshiral not enough?! I thought our ties with Celene were secured with Gaspard’s execution.”

For all the power he may possess, Trevelyan is still naive to the intricacies of the Game. The Inquisition would be long dead were it not for her and Leliana. “The Game does not end when one powerful player is thrown from the board. Whomever may sit on the throne, only the Council of Heralds can arbitrate over land disputes between nobility. You must have made a great impression upon the Marquise for her to invite our involvement in such a matter. ”

Cullen scoffs. “She’s asked us to defend the land so we should do that. Why make it unnecessarily complicated?”

Josephine sighs. She may hide it better than Leliana, but Cullen does occasionally try her patience as well. “The Marquise has known Empress Celene since the Empress was a child, but others in the Council of Heralds supported Gaspard and are less receptive to our alliance. If we were to meet the Comte’s forces on the field we would be seen by them as a foreign army occupying Orlesian territory. We may win the battle, but it would not ensure that we would be granted the land.”

Trevelyan throws up his hands. “What else can we do?”

“Allow me to write to the Comte directly. As you’ve said, there is potential for profit in the Ylenn Basin and I’m sure the Comte will think twice about sending his men there once he is made aware of our investment in the local economy. Agricultural production has been lucrative there for many years.”

“True.” Trevelyan strokes his chin. “Write to him; let’s see what he says before we go further.”

Cullen shoots Trevelyan an exasperated. “So we’re to be farmers now?”

Josephine really does pity him sometimes. The Inquisition has amassed a significant number of forces, but they are used more as a deterrent than anything else so there is little opportunity for his soldiers to find glory on the battlefield. “No, but arable land will be good for our coffers come spring.”

Trevelyan nods his agreement and Cullen deflates.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m needed for guard inspection.”

Cullen departs swiftly but Trevelyan lingers.  

“Was there something else, Your Worship?”

He picks at the edge of the map on the table. “Has there been any news from the Grand Cathedral?”

After the Inquisition’s triumph in Halamshiral, there has been no shortage of dignitaries and courtiers streaming through Skyhold’s gates, including clerics from the Chantry. But since the Inquisitor rejected their summons for Leliana and Cassandra, there had been no word from the Council of Clerics about the election of a new Divine. “Nothing. It may be some time yet. Have you spoken to Cassandra or Leliana about the matter?”

Trevelyan runs a hand through his hair and sighs heavily. “Leliana has not seemed keen to discuss it.”

“I see.” Since the contract with the House of Repose was destroyed Josephine had thought that their relationship was improving, but when she tried to broach the subject of the Divine candidacy Leliana had promptly ended the conversation. It was disappointing but not unexpected, even now Leliana hardly speaks of Justinia. The idea of taking her place must be unimaginable.   “What about Cassandra?”

He shakes his head. “The Chantry needs reform. Besides, I think she would rather return to the Seekers if Leliana’s agents can find them.”  

Trevelyan’s preference is unsurprising, he is as open a reformist as Leliana. At times it has made Josephine’s work more difficult in building alliances with those who adhere to more traditional views, but who could deny that there must be change after all that has transpired? 

“The Clerics may yet reach a decision amongst themselves, but it seems unlikely. I’m afraid a time may come when you must play a deciding role.” 

Trevelyan sighs. “Yes, but a new Divine won’t matter if Corypheus wins. The Clerics can wait.”

 

*****************************************

Charter and Butcher sit on opposite sides of the long table that serves as Charter’s desk in one of the small rooms off Caer Bronach’s main courtyard. The workspace is covered in stacks of creased and crumpled parchment covered in various forms of scribble. Since Halamshiral, the Inquisition has redoubled its efforts to root out Venatori activity, which means intercepting and pouring through every scrap of correspondence Charter’s agents can find. The elf tosses another note on top of Butcher’s pile. The encryptions are simple enough but Charter’s knowledge of Tevene is rudimentary at best. Luckily Butcher is good with languages. The spy is currently bent over a candle, reading miniscule text covering both sides of a piece of parchment. 

“Get to the point,” he grumbles, tossing the parchment into another pile before scribbling a few words into his notebooks. “Have the Venatori got no concept of brevity? These messages are like small novels about life in their camps. None of these agents could work for Nightingale.”

Charter and Leliana have written longer missives to one another that were entirely unrelated to business, but that’s not the point. “She’d probably let the Baron peck that habit out of them.”

Butcher laughs. “Can you imagine? He takes one look at the note, sees the writing on both sides then just has a go at them until they start over.”

“He drew blood the first time we met.”

“You too? I thought he was going to take one of my eyes out. Rector says he’s like that with everyone at Skyhold too. Apparently he’s calm as a kitten whenever Nightingale comes to see him though.” 

Butcher skims over the next note. “Here’s one about Calpernia.”

The Inquisition knows precious little about the Venatori leader. Charter takes her feet off the desk. “Anything about her whereabouts?”

“Doesn’t say. This is from a handler to his agent in Val Royeaux. It says Calpernia wants a few of her people to go see a merchant in the city, name’s Vicinius. Do you know him?”

“No. Can you copy a transcript of that? Nightingale should know if Calpernia is up to something.”

Charter stands and stretches. All this time at a desk makes her stiff. Charter watches as Butcher quickly scrawls the notes onto a small piece of parchment then slides it across the desk to her, tossing his quill onto the table.

“Maker, it’s late. We should have a drink.”

Charter rolls up the parchment. “I’ll come down when I’m finished in the rookery.”

Butcher nods and follows her out into the keep, heading right down the hall as she goes left and up the stairs. When she arrives at the rookery the raven cages are empty but there are a few agents working inside, sorting parcels of various shapes and sizes into large sacks. Brewer gives her a smile from behind a giant pile of parcels. “Need something sent off to Skyhold for Yule, Agent Charter? I’m organizing the caravan.”

“This goes with the next raven.” Charter passes her the parchment then pulls a thick envelope sealed with wax from her coat pocket. “And make sure this gets to Nightingale when you arrive, it’s too big to go by bird.”

Brewer thumps her fist to the crest on the chestpiece of her armor. “I’ll deliver it myself.”  

“Thanks.” Charter hands the envelope over with a pang of disappointment. It’s a trivial thing but she had hoped to give a Yule gift to Leliana in person. For the Inquisition their time in Halamshiral was a success, but for Charter it was bittersweet. There is now no doubt that Leliana trusts her, but the new operatives in Charter’s care meant there is even less reason for her to be in Skyhold. 

Charter winds her way back down the stairs, through the ground floor of Caer Bronach, and out through the chilly wind to the pub. It’s nowhere near as rowdy as the Herald’s Rest, but it’s warm and there’s plenty of ale. She fills a tankard at the bar then wanders over to where Butcher sits with a hooded figure half hidden in the shadows. For a moment Charter thinks it might be Leliana but the figure is too short and Butcher looks much too relaxed. Butcher pulls up a chair and motions for her to sit. “Took you long enough. Look what the cold brought in.”

The figure drops their hood and Charter immediately recognizes the woman as one of their agents, Tessa Forsythia. Another renegade Nevarran noble, Tessa has Cassandra’s coloring but none of her sharp edges, unless of course you ran in to one of her daggers. “Tessa? I thought you and Marius were going to the Western Approach.”

The woman smiled wryly. “It took longer than expected to wrap things up in Kirkwall and after throwing up on a boat for five days, it seemed better to go by land. Since we were in the area, I thought it might be nice to catch up.” 

Butcher stands, shaking his empty tankard. “ I’m going to get another round.”

He makes his way to the bar and Tessa turns her attention back to Charter, brown eyes flicking across her face appraisingly. “You look well.”

Charter takes a long sip of ale. They’d only crossed passed a few times, but the last time had ended with Charter in the Nevarran’s bed. There had been no promises made and no pining letters exchanged, which suited Charter fine. Tessa seems a decent type but many spies meet their end, in bed or elsewhere, at the hand of familiar lovers. 

Before Charter can decide how to respond, Butcher thumps three new tankards of ale on the table. He shoves one at Charter. “You better drink fast, runner just told me Brewer has a message for you from Orlais. She says its urgent.”

“It always is.” Charter tosses the tankard back and stands. Tessa looks disappointed and in another time, when the sky wasn’t torn open, Charter might have been too. Instead, she turns and leaves without looking back.

*****************************************

The halls of Skyhold are nearly empty and Cassandra thanks the Maker there is no one around to see her standing helplessly before Josephine’s door. Cassandra had been kept distracted by the alarming amount of red lyrium littering the Emprise, but since returning to Skyhold her mind has often wandered to Josephine and how she might go about seeing her again. She is a grown woman, a Seeker, and yet Cassandra had found herself feeling faint when the runner delivered Josephine’s invitation to have a drink that evening. Ridiculous.

With a huff Cassandra draws herself up and raps on the door. A moment later it swings open and Josephine greets Cassandra with a soft smile. “Lady Cassandra, do come in.”

The fire roars in the anteroom and through the flickering shadows Cassandra can make out a decanter of wine and a board of some type on the table between the two chairs. Josephine gestures for her to sit and pours two generous cups of wine, handing one to Cassandra. 

“Thank you.” Cassandra takes a sip and reflects upon the last time she and Josephine were alone with wine. If it had not been for Leliana, perhaps they would have gone to bed together instead of enduring more of Bull and Sera’s off-key singing. Maker curse the spymaster and her pranks. 

Josephine sits down beside her. “Have you been well? It must have been terribly cold in the Emprise.” 

“It was no colder than Skyhold at this time of year.” 

Josephine frowns. “Still, you were sleeping in tents were you not?”

“Yes. And Sera snores terribly loud. It is good to be back.” Cassandra leans back and crosses one leg over the other. She doesn’t want to think of the elf while she has Josephine’s undivided attention. She points to the wooden board. “Are we to play?”

Josephine smiles. “Do you know the rules?” 

“I do.” It is a commoner’s game and while many years among the Seekers has made Cassandra more than proficient, she is surprised Josephine has proposed it. The ambassador is always courteous to the common people who work within the Inquisition, but the airs and flourish of language that make her proficient in her work set her above them whether she intends it or not.  

Josephine distributes the red and blue stones and the first game begins. It’s not a mindless task and though Cassandra finds herself more attentive to the company than the game, she amasses no small number of victories. The wine is nearly finished and the fire burned to embers when the conversation begins to lull.

Cassandra can feel Josephine’s eyes on her as she picks up four small red stones from one of the depressions on her side of the board. Trying to keep her expression neutral, she drops them one-by-one into each of the other depressions in her row. The first three already have stones in them but the last one is barren. 

As her final stone rattles into the empty depression, Cassandra smiles and Josephine lets out a low curse. Cassandra picks up all the green stones in the corresponding depression in Josephine’s row. “That is the game.”

Josephine sits back with a huff. “So it is. I’ve never been beaten so soundly. You must teach me your strategy.”

Cassandra drains the remainder of her wine and chuckles. “I think not. You best me at most every other game we’ve played. I must retain my dignity somehow.”

Josephine smiles and shakes her head, standing to add another log to the fire. Cassandra rises to help and watches as a few locks of hair escape from their pins to fall around Josephine’s face. The ambassador quickly reaches up to sweep them back behind her ear but the action exposes a few inches of skin at her wrist where the tie of her cuff has loosened. Cassandra considers how many knots must be undone to disrobe Josephine entirely. 

Josephine catches her eyes and Cassandra quickly looks away, but there’s a slight pause in Josephine’s otherwise fluid movements and Cassandra knows she’s been caught. Josephine holds her eyes and Cassandra feels like her skin is on fire.  

“Perhaps we should find something to do that plays to both of our strengths.” 

If this were a novel, Cassandra would know what came next after such an innuendo and if Halamshiral were any indication then Josephine would not be opposed to the idea. Still, one must be sure. She glances at Josephine, whose eyes drift down to Cassandra’s lips then back up again. Cassandra inhales slowly and steps closer. “Do you have something in mind?”

Josephine doesn’t respond, instead sliding a hand up to the back of Cassandra’s neck pulling her closer. Cassandra’s eyes flutter closed and Josephine’s lips brush hers. “Take me to bed, Cassandra.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice.

*****************************************

Leliana stands bent over her desk, scrawling in a book alongside the report sent by her agents new the Shrine of Dumat. Most of those that went inside lost their lives, but it is now safe for Trevelyan and his companions to enter. Many of the agents who entered the shrine volunteered, knowing they likely would not survive. Still, the quill feels heavy in her hand as Leliana adds their names to the registry of dead agents. The book is half full; how many more will be lost before Corypheus is gone?

“Nightingale, Charter sent this from Caer Bronach.”

Leliana snaps the book shut and takes the envelope from the runner. She waits for him to depart before opening it. Inside is a note and what appears to be a small sachet of seeds. She sets the sachet aside and opens the note. It is unsigned but in Charter’s handwriting. 

_ Leliana, _

_ Enclosed are seeds of Andraste’s Grace I found before the last frost. They grow wild in the fields here and I know it is long since you’ve been to Ferelden, so I thought you might like to plant them in Skyhold’s garden this spring.   _

_ Happy Yule _

The message is un-encrypted, intimate in its simplicity.  Charter means this to be personal, not a gift between spies, dressed in their usual play of intricate encryption and aliases. The difference is significant. Leliana pulls off a glove and runs her fingers over the paper, tracing the lines of ink. 

She and Charter had made amends at the Winter Palace, and were it not for the Venatori, Leliana would have asked Charter to return to Skyhold. But what excuse would she have to do so? There is no one better to run operations in Ferelden, and to ask Charter to give up her command so they might be in closer proximity would be absurd.  

Leliana reads the note again then folds it carefully and slips it into a secret pocket in her armor. She replaces her glove and picks up the sachet as she rounds the desk and makes her way down the stairs to the herbalist’s quarters near the garden. 

As she walks back along the stone colonnade she hears faint footsteps behind her. 

Leliana calls over her shoulder, “why are you following me?”

Morrigan falls into step beside her. “A little bird tells me you’ve been using some sort of crystal to track Calpernia. Might I take a look?”

Leliana can’t help but laugh. Morrigan would make a good agent if the target of her surveillance suited her own curiosities. “No. Dagna has it. She has proven more than adept with such things. Tabris was smart to support her leaving Orzammar.”

Morrigan waves the comment away. “Tabris always was a bleeding heart. Still, I would like to examine the crystal. I am the Inquisitor’s advisor on the arcane, after all.”

Leliana is sure the statement is meant to be compelling but Morrigan will have to do better than that. “True. If he wishes you to see it  _ then _ I will show you.” 

Morrigan pulls her to a stop. “You don’t trust me.”

Leliana takes a step away. “You used Tabris for revenge on your mother then disappeared into a mirror for ten years. No, I do not trust you.”

Morrigan throws up her hands in exasperation. “I saved Tabris’ life and yours more than once. What would you have me do?”

“It’s been ten years, Morrigan!” It comes out more harshly than Leliana intends. Morrigan’s presence would have likely made no difference all those years, except to create further chaos. Leliana has never begrudged Tabris and Zevran their happiness, but when the blight was over and they departed Leliana found herself more alone than she had been at Lothering. Nonetheless, she found her way to Justinia in the end and she would trade nothing for that. “I’m sorry. I know you’re here to help us.”

Morrigan cocks an eyebrow and they begin to walk again. “Yes, well, t’is not as if I was ever going to join you in the Chantry after the Blight.”

Leliana gives her a sly grin. “A pity, you played the part well when we broke Tabris out of the prison at Fort Drakon. Have you told your son that story?”

Morrigan rolls her eyes. “The memory had slipped my mind.” 

“I’m sure.”

They come to a stop outside the door of Morrigan’s rooms.

“He’s inside. Come and meet him.”

Leliana nods her agreement and Morrigan opens the door. A boy of eight or nine with dark hair sits before the fire plucking at a small lute. 

Morrigan ushers Leliana inside. “Keiran, this is Leliana. We traveled together during the blight.”

The boy looks up inquisitively. His eyes are bright and sharp like his mother’s, but lack the anger Morrigan’s always held when they were younger. “Hello.”

It is warm in the sitting room and the boy looks unsure of her, so Leliana lowers her hood and smiles. “Hello. Your lute is very beautiful.”

Keiran perks up, holding the lute with pride. “My mummy gave it to me. I had a teacher in Val Royeaux but now I have to practice by myself.”

Morrigan sits beside Keiran and runs a hand over his hair. He leans into her and she kisses him on the head. Leliana watches in wonderment. There is a gentleness to Morrigan that would have seemed unimaginable all those years ago. 

Morrigan taps the lute. “Will you play something for us?”

Keiran nods determinedly and plucks some basic chords. The melody is simple but his notes are well struck. Leliana glances at Morrigan, but the mage’s eyes are fixed on her son. He finishes and both Morrigan and Leliana clap.

Keiran grins and offers the lute to Leliana. “Mummy says you were a bard. You must know many songs.”

“Let’s see what I remember.” Leliana takes the instrument. It is smaller than her own but finely made. Morrigan chose well. She checks the tuning and plays the opening chords of an old Ferelden folk song. She is about to start the first verse when Keiran hops up.

“I know that one! It’s a story about Andraste’s Mabari!”

Morrigan pulls him back towards his seat. “It’s rude to interrupt, Keiran.”

Chastised, Keiran turns back to Leliana. “I’m sorry.”

Leliana shakes her head. “It’s all right. Will you sing it with me?”

“Yes!” 

It’s a simple song about a girl and her faithful dog, but Keiran’s voice is high and clear and sweet with youth. He sings jubilantly and Leliana strives to match his tone in her harmonies. It has been so long since she has sung for the joy of it, when she strums the final chord there are tears in her eyes. 

Morrigan applauds them both and Keiran bows with a flourish. Leliana rises and hands him the lute. “You sing and play very well, Keiran. I think you will be a great talent.”

Keiran clutches the instrument. “Will you come and play with me again sometime?”

Leliana looks to Morrigan before answering, but the mage just gives her a small smile. 

“If you like. Perhaps you can come visit the rookery and meet the ravens.”

Keiran gives a whoop and Morrigan grins. “You’ll regret inviting him to the rookery, he loves birds.”

Leliana shrugs. “There are worse things.”

Morrigan smiles. “Indeed. Happy Yule, Leliana.”

“Happy Yule.”

Leliana makes her way to the door, pulling her hood up as she steps outside. 

*****************************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone still reading, this fic is not abandoned! Research takes up most of my time but I do intend to finish this. Hope you enjoyed a little fluffy Christmas in July :)


	8. Trials II

Adamant Fortress, 9:42 Dragon

*****************************************

Cassandra hates fighting in the sand. At best it’s a hindrance to her footwork, at worst it gets in the eyes and forces you to fight blind. When the Inquisitor asked her to come to the Western Approach, she had no choice but to follow despite her feelings about the desert. After months of fighting Venatori, Cassandra could never have imagined that they would now be battling corrupted Grey Wardens. 

The fighting has been fierce and though they have searched all over the fortress, there is still no sign of that depraved Magister, Livius Erimond. Cassandra throws her last healing potion to Dorian, who looks like his staff might be the only thing keeping him on his feet. The fortress ramparts are littered with the carcasses of demons, but more rise up from ripples in the Veil. Sweat stings Cassandra’s eyes and she can hardly keep track of how many demons surround her.  She can only parry as a hunger demon swings at her head. A moment later, an arrow flies through its gaping mouth and explodes, covering Cassandra with gore.

She whirls to thank Sera when white hot pain strikes through her beneath the armor covering her right shoulder  flesh. The pain is so intense Cassandra almost drops her sword. She lets out a grunt of pain as she turns, swinging her shield as hard as she can into a rage demon, sending it reeling. It reaches a smoldering claw up towards her but Cassandra can’t lift her sword arm to strike. A blinding green light flashes above them and the demon is dragged howling back into the Fade. 

The rift snaps shut and Trevelyan slides to a stop beside her, blood pouring from his nose. He opens his mouth to say something when they’re hit with a concussive blast that sends Cassandra flying across the stones. She looks around her to see Trevelyan and Sera get up, but Dorian is lies still, knocked into the outcropping of rubble.

Trevelyan runs to revive him as four corrupt Grey Warden mages come into view from the cloud of sand. One already has his grimoire open and is mumbling the beginnings of a spell. Cassandra grabs Trevelyan by the shoulder as he passes. “Leave him!” 

He shrugs her off. “We can’t fight without him!”

She grabs Trevelyan by the collar, forcing him to look her in the eye. His nose is clearly broken and one of his eyes is already turning purple. “Trust me.”

“Hey Seeker!” Sera scrambles to collect her arrows strewn across the sand and stones around them. Cassandra can see where the elf’s armor is cut clean through by a slash across her ribs.  “Whatever you’re doing can you do it fast? Otherwise I’m shooting before they finish reading from their little books of things that kill us!”

Trevelyan steps back, shielding Dorian’s unconscious form from the Wardens as Sera moves into position beside him. Cassandra takes up a position at Sera’s flank. “I need you to distract them!”

“More like kill them,” Sera wheezes defiantly. She pulls a flask from her belt with some effort and downs it. No person in their right mind would cover themselves in fire willingly, but whether Sera is ever truly in her right mind is debatable. The elf is completely aflame when she unleashes her first barrage of arrows. “Eat it!”

Trevelyan’s arrows are close behind, forcing the Wardens to break their casting to avoid being skewered. Cassandra drops to a knee, using her good arm to stake her sword deep into the hard sand in front of her. She wraps both hands around the hilt to focus, then bows her head. 

Closing her eyes, she listens to the sound of the battle: A staff slamming into the ground as a spell is cast, Sera’s bowstring pulling taut, Trevelyan’s hidden blades flying through the air. She can hear eight pairs of lungs breathing, eight pairs of hearts beating. Through the cacophony, she finds the songs beneath the sound.

She slowly coaxes four thin melodies to her, ignoring the faint hum coming from behind where Dorian lies comatose. The lyrium strains do not fight, instead they swirl through the silence of her Vigil, seeking a way to tether themselves to her mind. Cassandra welcomes them in, slowly twisting and tightening each strain until they’re on the verge of popping.  _ Burn.  _ The strains turn white hot, snapping back to their hosts with a sharp crack that echoes through her skull. When Cassandra stands four Wardens fall, and their lyrium songs come to an end. 

“Andraste’s tits!” Sera clutches her bow as she inches towards the mages’ corpses. The air reeks of scorched flesh. “What did you do to them?”

Cassandra struggles to wipe her sandy blade on her trousers and sheathe it before picking up her shield from the rubble nearby. She can feel her bloody gambeson sticking to her skin beneath her backplate. “When some Seekers complete their vigil, the Maker bestows certain gifts upon them. That is mine.”

Satisfied that they’re dead, Sera turns from the Wardens and limps alongside Cassandra towards where the Inquisitor is helping Dorian get up. “Should have told someone you could light people on fire. That’s useful. Not that your other skills aren’t.”

Cassandra feels more lightheaded with every step. Using her gift is draining when she isn’t injured. In her current state she’s lucky to still be conscious. “Not people. Just lyrium.”

Dorian brushes the sand out of his hair, leaning heavily against the Inquisitor. “Just lyrium she says, as though that makes it any less terrifying!” 

He doesn’t understand. Seekers are not Templars; her relationship to lyrium is an unexpected side effect of her first Vigil, and one she has only ever used under the most dire of circumstances. To have had to use it against Grey Wardens makes her feel sick. “If the Inquisitor had not been here I would not even have considered such a thing. I do not use it lightly.”

The Inquisitor wipes his bloody face. “No one is questioning you, Cassandra.”

Dorian shoves off Trevelyan's shoulder, trying to stand on his own. “Oh, but I am! What happens if she thinks one of our mages is acting out of turn?” 

“She saved your life!” The Inquisitor takes his arm again. “We need to get to our reinforcements, there will be healers there. Then we have to find Erimond.”  

Before Dorian can reply, a dragon swoops low overhead, spewing fire onto the rampart. It is all they can do to dive for cover as the blaze rushes overhead.

 

*****************************************

Skyhold’s courtyard is in chaos as Inquisition soldiers stream in. Many are wounded, carried by soldiers in litters or pulled in carts. Trevelyan has already made his way inside, speaking to no one. There is no sign of Cassandra. Cullen stands in the middle of it all giving orders and Josephine picks her way across the gravel toward him. “Cullen! Are you all right?”

He turns, expression grim. “You got my report?”

The news from Adamant had been alarming with their details of demons and Grey Wardens doing blood magic. Worse, it seemed Trevelyan had fallen into the Fade, taking Cassandra, Sera, and Dorian with him

“Yes. How is Trevelyan?”

Cullen sighs. “Not well. None of them are. Maker only knows what horrors they encountered in the Fade. And this talk of the Divine...I don’t know what to make of it.”

Over his should Josephine sees Cassandra limp through the gate, her right arm in a sling. “Nor do I. If you’ll excuse me.”

Josephine weaves through the crowd. Cassandra’s armor is caked with gore and her right arm is heavily bandaged. The Seeker tries to smile, but it looks more like a grimace. “Josephine.”

Josephine wants to throw her arms around Cassandra and tell her how glad she is to see her, but the other woman looks dangerously close to falling over. “What happened?”

“Demons.” Cassandra starts to limp towards the Great Hall and Josephine quickly steps up beside her for support. 

Josephine looks over Cassandra’s wounds more closely. Blood is beginning to come through the bandages. “Should you not see a healer? Surely one of the mages could--”

Cassandra shakes her head. “I was tended after the battle and there are others here in far greater need. Thank the Maker Mother Giselle is here, there are many who will need her prayers now.”

As they walk into the Great Hall Josephine looks back to see Mother Giselle and a group of sisters walking among the row of wounded lying on their pallets. Some do not look as if they’ll survive until the morning. “Is it true you saw the Divine in the Fade?”

Cassandra’s expression turns to stone. “Yes. I must speak to Leliana at once.” 

Leliana had also received a copy of Cullen’s report, but what she thinks of Trevelyan’s encounter with the Divine is unknown to Josephine.  The spymaster has not been seen outside the rookery in days, though her agents move about Skyhold at all hours. “She’s in the rookery, I believe.”

“I should not delay then.” She leans closer to Josephine. “I would come to you after, but it may be late.”

Cassandra has come to Josephine’s quarters on many evenings since the first night they spent together at Yule. The campaign in the Western Approach has meant that they have not shared a bed for weeks now. Knowing the danger Cassandra has just faced, Josephine is eager to have her close. “No matter. Come when you can.”  

Cassandra gives her a small smile and they part ways, Cassandra for the rookery and Josephine to her rooms. There is plenty of work to be done and the time passes more quickly than Josephine had expected. The moon is high when Josephine sets aside the pile of correspondence and rises to change into a sleeping gown. A few minutes later, Cassandra appears. She is no longer wearing armor and her wounds are freshly bandaged. Her face is clean but there are dark circles under her bloodshot eyes. Josephine takes her hand and gently leads her inside. “You should lie down.”

Cassandra nods wearily. “It was a long journey.”

Josephine pulls back the blankets and Cassandra sits down heavily. She reaches down with her good hand to try and remove her boots but Josephine catches her wrist. “It’s all right. Let me.”

It’s a testament to Cassandra’s haggard state that she doesn’t protest. Josephine helps her into bed then blows out the few candles still lit. She climbs into bed, careful not to bump against Cassandra for fear or causing her pain. For a moment she is still, listening to the sound of Cassandra’s light breathing. The other woman is still awake. Josephine turns onto her side to face her. “If you wish to talk about what happened--”

“I would rather not. Please.” Cassandra doesn’t look at her so Josephine rolls onto her back.  

“Of course. Good night.”  

Cassandra’s hand seeks hers in the dark, squeezing gently. “Good night.”

 

*****************************************

_ “Sera, Sera, Sera...if you shoot an arrow at me, I’ll know where you are.”  _

 

Sera’s jolts awake, knocking the bottle of wine she’d been cradling to the floor. She scrambles to sit up, knocking pillows and whatever else off of her bed. Moonlight pours in from the windows as Sera fumbles around on the floor for the bottle. She holds it up to the dim light, turns it over. Empty.  _ Piss. _

It’s been like this for days since Sera got back from Adamant. Isn’t just her though. Sera sat on her roof and watched Cassandra destroy three training dummies the day after they got back. Then Bull showed up wanting her to hit him instead. Sera had even seen the Inquisitor training alone on the ramparts, looking like he was fighting ghosts.

The sound of laughter and glass breaking drifts up from downstairs. The Chargers must be back from patrol. Sera doesn’t know why this place is called The Herald’s Rest. The Herald is never here anymore and those that are certainly aren’t resting. She looks out the window. The moon is still high: not too late to go back downstairs and have another bottle or three, maybe watch Varric cheat some poor sods out of their last copper at Wicked Grace. The last time they’d played was right before the Inquisition assaulted Adamant. Josephine ran the tables on everyone and Sera’s pretty sure she saw Cullen’s naked arse go by at some point. But she did wake up the next day under the table with only one shoe, so it might well have all been a dream. 

There’ll be none of that tonight though. Stupid nightmare demon made sure of that. More drinking means sleeping, means dreaming, means demons. Sod the stairs, best take the roof just to be safe. 

Sera opens the window and climbs out. Once, she’d actually convinced the Inquisitor to come up here and they’d thrown shite cookies at shite people until a bad toss by the Inquisitor hit Cassandra. The two scrambled to get back in the window, falling into a laughing heap on the floor of her room. They’d barely composed themselves when Cassandra stomped up the stairs. 

 

_ “Inquisitor--” _

 

_ Sera can barely stifle a laugh as the Inquisitor tries to brush a bit of cookie off her face as quickly as possible. They both freeze as Cassandra strode into the room, sighing at the crumb-laden scene before her. _

 

_ “Inquisitor, you’re needed in the war room.”  _

 

_ The Inquisitor stumbles towards the door but Cassandra doesn’t move. Sera tries to look innocent and not like she’s thinking of how aroused she’d been watching Cassandra bash a mercenary lord’s head in with just her shield on their last trip to the Hinterlands. Sera swallows hard, feeling a blush coming on. Cassandra’s eyes narrowed on the plate of cookies still sitting on the table. “May I?” _

 

_ Sera can barely nod as Cassandra takes one of the cookies, popping it into her mouth and following the inquisitor out the door. A moment later she hears the sound of Cassandra coughing and the Inquisitor’s muffled laughter.  _

 

_ “Maker! These are terrible!”  _

 

Just like best times. They’d been talking about pies for their next one. The Inquisitor said she could get the cook to bake her a few, wouldn’t even have to steal them. Almost takes the fun out of it. Almost.   

But that was before they knew Coryphimus was controlling the friggin’ grey Wardens with friggin’ blood magic.Then they went into the friggin’ fade. With a friggin’ nightmare demon...Sera squints her eyes shut, forcing herself to breathe.  As her heart rate slows she opens them, looking up at the night sky torn open. She could always shoot more arrows at the breach, but last time she’d done that the arrows never came back down. Can’t be wasting arrows now with the demons and red templars everywhere. 

Sera sighs and swings a leg over the side of the roof, feeling for a foothold. As she starts to climb down down the side of the building, she hears Maryden singing that creepy song about her again. Sera rolls her eyes and reaches for her next foothold on the window ledge but slips, landing hard on her back. Brushing the dirt off her trousers, she stands up just in time to hear Maryden finish the song.  _ She’s a rogue and a thief and she’ll fall on her face _ . Shite. 

As she climbs the stairs into the great hall from the kitchen, Sera can’t decide if the cake here is really that good or if it’s nicking a kitchen full of food meant for rich nobs that does it for her. Either way, she feels better. Still no rush to get back to her room though. Few hours til sun up, need another distraction. 

The fires are roaring throughout the great hall, casting big shadows off the fancy decorations and furniture. Little Josie’s influence no doubt. Fine enough for her and the Herald and Vivienne. Not for Sera though. Reminds her of Lady Emmald. When the sickness came the old woman shrank and wasted away while the fires, the furniture, all seemed bigger and bigger. Sera feels sick, reaching into her pocket for the figurine of armored Andraste she’s been carrying. It’s the only thing she’d brought out of Haven besides her bow. When she first joined up with the Inquisition, she went down to have a look at what was left of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. No one was supposed to get down there but if there’s one thing Sera’s good at it’s being no one. Big people leaving big holes. Divine Justinia, the biggest of all. 

Still clutching the figurine of Andraste, Sera’s feet carry her up the stairs towards the rookery, hoping to visit the ravens. They’re good listeners and they appreciate stolen cakes more than most at Skyhold. As she reaches the top of the stairs she sees Leliana sitting at her desk, sifting through a handful of reports. Does she ever sleep? Leliana must have a room somewhere in Skyhold, but when she up here doing pranks with Trevelyan she noticed a bedroll shoved behind some of the crates. It’s cold and Sera imagines sleeping up here is a lot like sleeping in the alleys in Denerim during the winter.

The spymaster’s eyes flick up then back down to her work. “You’ve been in the kitchens again. Baron Plucky just returned if you’d like to give him a treat.” 

“How did you…” Sera looks down at her pockets stuffed with leftover cakes. “Right.”

She climbs up on to the railing by the Baron’s cage and eases the cage door open. “Come here, you. Nightingale’s got you flying all hours, yeah?”

The raven hops out onto her hand willingly, he knows who can be trusted to bring treats. 

Sera watches as Leliana keeps writing. “There’s much to do after what happened at Adamant.”

Sera gives Plucky another piece of a biscuit. He accepts with a low coo. “Don’t have to tell me. I was there, remember? Friggin’ mental, all that.” 

Leliana puts down her quill. “The reports were concerning. Are you all right?”

Concerning is one way to put it. “Yeah. Just never gonna sleep again. Should be asking you the same thing, with the Divine and all.”

Leliana is quiet for a moment and Sera thinks maybe she shouldn’t have brought it up.  The Divine’s appearance in the fade had been a shock to everyone, and Sera had seen how shaken Cassandra was by it. Trevelyan had offered to tell Leliana about seeing the Divine in the Fade, but Cassandra had insisted on doing it anyway. From the agents’ gossip in the Herald’s Rest, it hadn’t gone well.

Leliana finally stands, walking over to the statue of Andraste in the rookery alcove.  “She was a mother, a teacher, a savior. How could she think she failed me?”

Sera follows Leliana. Dozens of candles burn around the statue. It’s the first time Sera has seen it up close; she recognizes it as one that used to be in the chantry in Haven. There’s nothing remarkable about the carving, and if Sera didn’t know it was supposed to be Andraste it could have been anyone. 

“Dunno. But under all that Divine stuff Justinia was still human, yeah? And people muck things up. It’s just confusing when people you care about do it because you don’t think they could muck it up, but they do.”

“It’s not the same. I would be nothing, less than nothing, without her. ” Leliana’s voice trembles and Sera wonders if she’s crying. It’s hard to see under the hood, and anyway the spymaster is staring at the statue. Sera wonders if Leliana sees Andraste or Justinia in the stone.

Sera knows what it feels like to be nothing. Being born in an alienage will do that for you. Then there was Lady Emmald and her stupid pride cookies. Sera doesn’t know all that much about Leliana’s relationship with Justinia, but she’s heard enough to think Justinia was sort of like Lady Emmald, except with murder instead of cookies. 

“They make you feel warm and safe and shite. But then they start telling they need you to do some things, be something, or not be something. And you do it or whatever but it hurts. Changes you inside. Then they die and it hurts again, but in a different way. Same thing.”

Lady Emmald wasn’t a good woman, but she’d cared in her own way. More than anyone else had. Now Sera is crying. Stupid feelings. She wipes her face on her sleeve and looks up to see Leliana smiling at her sadly. “Even if that were true, I am who I am because it’s what I need to be.”

“Scary spymaster, you mean? Divine needed that, sure. Inquisitor needs that, definitely. Big people always needing big things. But there’s a lot of little people here too,  _ real _ people who just want normal lives when Corypheus is dead. Poor sods from Redcliffe begging outside the kitchens don’t need a spymaster, they need food. And I don’t need a spymaster to help me put arrows in a big nob’s face. You can be lots of things, not just our Shadow of Birds.”

Sera doesn’t know Leliana like Josephine or Cassandra do, but she’s heard the stories about her from Jennys in Denerim. Apparently Leliana used to play before she went to work for the Divine. Even now, when Leliana’s messengers send in information about bad people who aren’t bad enough for Trevelyan to deal with, she gives it to Sera to pass along to other Jennys. As far as Sera is concerned, Leliana is one of the the little people, no matter how many agents she employs.

“Perhaps.” Leliana’s tone is flat as she takes one last look at the statue of Andraste then turns away. “I’d like to be alone now.”

“Right. Well, good chat, yeah? I’m off.” Leliana doesn’t reply so Sera says a quick prayer to the Maker that Leliana didn’t just shank her for saying too much then slinks back down the stairs and out to the courtyard. The sun is beginning to come up; maybe she can fit in a nap before Maryden starts playing again. 

*****************************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, now that I've sneaked in something from Sera's POV I'm back on hiatus for a while. I'll be back when I can with an update! In the meantime, comments are always appreciated :)


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